In the Keeping of HFA
by Meir Brin
Summary: Something more is happening at the Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy this year. Something other than mass fanwriter education Through Pain. Something more... sinister? Maybe, but "chaotic" and "insane" work too.
1. A Shrub's Delivery is Full of Irony

In the Keeping of HFA  
by Meir Brin  
  


Author's Notes: This is the sequel to The Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy, and for greater understanding and enjoyment is best read chronologically. And now, the Disclaimer:  
  
I, Meir Brin, do not own the world of Harry Potter (property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers), the OFUM (property of Miss Camilla Sandman, who has authorized this spin-off), the PPC (property of Jay and Acacia, plus the Flowers That Be), The Lord of the Rings (property of the Tolkien Estate, I put that in because references may be made), Discworld (property of Terry Pratchett, ditto), or any other recognizable fandom which are obviously not my own. I make no money from this, and, for good measure, will add that I am very poor.  
  
There are, however, quite a few things in this story which _are_ mine. Do not mess with them. You will regret it. Severely.  
  
For enrollment papers, please visit my website, which is accessible from my author page. It is necessary to not take oneself too seriously to enroll in HFA. Thank you.  
  
*********  
  
Upon the first look, the grounds of Hogwarts, or, rather, of HFA, were calm and peaceful.   
  
But that was only upon first look.   
  
Upon the second look, one would note some a multitude of oddities, even for Potterverse, such as the Death Eater Quidditch team playing the Order of the Phoenix over on the pitch, or a chorus of squeaky, ear bleeding-inducing voices from a mob of house elves that were cleaning the student dormitories.  
  
A final inspection, however, would note even more insanity. One would notice a constant stream of movement within the Forbidden Forest as spiders went about their business in the shadows of the trees, the groan of the castle as yet another spell shook its foundations, or the regular scream and splash as a wayward Mary Sue was apprehended and systematically dumped into the lake.  
  
It was highly unlikely, though, that one would notice Jack Wrenchman, who was currently sitting in a shrub next to the main entrance, unnoticed by the Canon and Uncanon staff of HFA.   
  
Indeed, he was hidden quite well. Too well, in Wrenchman's mind. He shifted uncomfortably in the bushes and cursed the fact that his lack of money had forced him to take such a job. Everyday he considered that this was all a big dream, that he would wake up and resume studies at University and never give the past week a thought. Really, who in their right mind would recruit a starving college student to spy on some fantasy school that Wrenchman wasn't even sure really existed?  
  
Oy, Wrenchman! called a voice through a small wooden box that was attached to his hip, fuming slightly. To clarify, the box was in fact smoking, and the person who was talking into the box was in a sour mood as well. Wrenchman pushed a button and activated the device. Yes, sir?  
  
It should be coming your way right now. Take a look and tell me what you can see, ordered the box.  
  
Wrenchman edged around so that he could peer out of the bushes at the front steps of a large castle. His employer had told him he was going to the land of Harry Potter, only different. Wrenchman had only seen the movies, but was pretty sure that Potterverse was not in possession of so many weird creatures, like a walking buffet line and millions of large, furry spiders.  
  
I don't see anyone here, sir, said Wrenchman, squinting. Are you sure- No, wait, here's something. There's a carriage pulling up to the drive, headed by a, a, sheesh, I don't know what it is. Looks like a great big shrub or something.  
  
Is there anyone coming from the castle? asked the box eagerly.  
  
Wrenchman craned his neck as the huge doors opened. Yes, there's someone coming, he whispered. Tall sort of woman, and a teenager. Oh, and there's that old wizard, Dumbledore, he's here as well.  
  
The shrub dismounted from the carriage, then opened its door like some perverse type of footman. Wrenchman did a perfect double take as a short pine tree stepped out of the vehicle.  
  
There's a pine tree here now, said the student, leaning forward to get a closer look. He's got a parcel of some kind, brown paper and a bunch of stamps, it would seem.  
  
There was a stream of frantic whispering coming from the box. ... they're not sending an agent, but why that? Important, must be important, R must know, he'll want to do something, is it really it, though? Wrenchman struggled to pick out and understand what was being said, but could not. At last, a command was given to him. What's going on now, Wrenchman?  
  
They're speaking, I think, he said.  
  
Well, what are they saying?! exclaimed the box indignantly.  
  
Wrenchman rolled his eyes and crept closer, until he could pick out what was going on. He must be dreaming, he had to be. Trees didn't talk, the Potterverse wasn't real, and he was one sick collegian...  
  
... you must be crazy to entrust this to us, the woman was saying. After what happened last year?  
  
It's already been arranged, Miss Brin. It will be kept here, said a rustling voice, which Wrenchman assumed was the pine tree (he had surely drank milk past the expiration date, said part of his mind, that was the only logical reason for it).  
  
It won't be a problem, said the teenager. After last year, what's the worst that could happen?  
  
Miss White, please don't bring the Ironic Over-power down on us, said the woman. That's the last thing we need, especially with this thing here.  
  
said the teenager, adjusting her gold-trimmed uniform. I just don't think anything can compete with plagues of Mary-Sues.  
  
Albus Dumbledore sighed, looking even more tired than usual. You have now sealed our fate, Ally.  
  
The pine tree stamped its trunk impatiently. Are you going to take this from me or not? it asked. The teenager, Ally White, hurried forward and took the brown parcel from the plant, struggling under its weight.  
  
We'll try to keep it safe, said the tall woman, looking as if that was more of a prayer than a confidant statement.  
  
I hope so, said the pine tree. And remember, no one is to know that it's here.  
  
Except the staff, interjected Ally.  
  
And the Canon Characters, added Professor Dumbledore.  
  
If the pine tree had had eyes, it would have rolled them. Yes, yes, very well. Just keep it safe, and don't let those fanwriters near it.  
  
Ally nodded, and she and Professor Dumbledore walked back into the castle, out of Wrenchman's range of vision. The tall woman, Miss Brin, stayed behind to talk with the tree.  
  
I also ask that you keep an eye out for anything unnatural going on around here, said the pine tree secretly, and Wrenchman had to shift so that he could catch the rest of the conversation.  
  
Most things that go on here are unnatural, said Miss Brin. People don't normally walk around with wands and trade Famous Fangirl Cards; as a rule, this place is generally very unnatural.  
  
Meir, you know what's going on in the Real World, I expect you've heard of the campaigns, and that suit, said the tree covertly.  
  
whispered Miss Brin, suddenly serious. Yes, of course.  
  
There are rumors going around the fandoms. Characters dropping out of stories, an abundance of Evil Avatars by the same authors. Only last week we had an agent disappear entirely from inside a Bad Slash fiction.  
  
That's nothing out of the ordinary, though, rationalized Miss Brin. Suvians avoid some characters entirely, why, I haven't seen a story about Argus Filch for four whole months. And Evil Avatars are hardly rare, you know. As for the other one, Bad Slash does tend to turn some people into maniacs, my cousin Marokee, for one, is-  
  
It is hard to place, but there is a bad _feeling_ around. I was told to tell you that Potterverse is becoming too lax. These new fanwriters that are coming, they must be trained better. Do you see-  
  
What was that? asked Miss Brin suddenly.  
  
Wrenchman slithered back into his bush, trying not to even move. _You did not see me, you did not see me_, he chanted to himself. The pine tree and the woman were staring at the shrubbery in which he was concealed. Wrenchman wasn't especially afraid of them, but he would lose his job if he was seen. R wouldn't like it, and Wrenchman couldn't afford to pay the rent if he didn't make at least five hundred dollars on this job.  
  
A Mini-Aragog, I expect, said Miss Brin, when the bush was still for five minutes time. They are getting so innovative these days, always finding new ways to navigate the castle and making pretty pictures in their webs. Some of Draco's name-mistakes have even started creating portraits in them. Letting them watch Charlotte's Web' was a good move on Hagrid's part, I must say.  
  
The pine tree didn't appear to be taking in a word of this, as far as Wrenchman could tell, but then again it was a pine tree, and he had no idea what its facial expressions looked like (did it even have a face? ).  
  
I depart, then, said the tree, stepping back into its carriage. Miss Brin waved as the vehicle ambled down the walk, then it vanished completely. Before its leaving, Wrenchman had noticed the letters , , and emblazoned upon the back, along with various other sayings that looked more like graffiti than anything else (Rincewind was here, Pea Pea See, Slytherin droolz, and some scratching writing the might have been Sindarin).  
  
Wrenchman, report, said the wooden box. Have they taken the package?  
  
What? Oh, yes, it's in the castle, said he. The tree left, but that woman's still here. Do you need anything else? -wait, what's this?  
  
Harry Potter and Ron Weasley ran down the stone steps, out of breath. The bespectacled boy stopped in front of Miss Brin. It's really here? Why is it here?  
  
So that we can keep an eye on it, said Miss Brin, turning back to the stone steps.  
  
I don't like it, I think it'll cause trouble, said Hermione Granger, walking out of the castle composedly.  
  
You worry too much, Hermione, said Ron.  
  
But it's, well, it's the _you-know-what_! said Hermione.  
  
We're not going to start this whole thing again? groaned Harry. Call things by their names, please. And I thought we were making progress with Lord Voldemort and all.  
  
Ron flinched, and then a small, blistered creature the size of a human baby toddled down the front steps. Are you talking about me? babbled the creature. It is not nice to gossip about your colleagues, you know.  
  
Sorry, LVJ, said Hermione.  
  
There you all are, said a motherly voice, and Mrs. Weasley bustled out of the castle, accompanied by Dobby. We've just finished cooking supper, and would be much obliged if you would all come and eat. I hear that there are certain _important things_ that we have to talk about, she said, with a meaningful look at Miss Brin.  
  
Dobby has made ice cream pie! squeaked the house elf excitedly, his black leather tea cozy bobbing up and down. Dobby had recently joined the Elves in Black (Leather), and was quite the fashion statement.  
  
Well, that's good news, at least, said Miss Brin as the group proceeded into the castle. They did not see the tense figure in the bushes collapse in exhaustion as the doors swung shut.  
  
They're going to dinner, sir, and my guess is that they ain't going to be back for a while, said Wrenchman. Can I return now?  
  
hissed the voice in the box. What have we all told you about using improper grammar around that place?! _Won't_, Wrenchman, and it's may I', _may_ I'!  
  
Wrenchman rolled his eyes and started to gather up his things. I really don't see what the big deal is, sir.  
  
Yess, you canses, but you mays notses, yess you canses, but you mays notses... hissed something behind Wrenchman's back. The phrase was repeated over and over again, and when Wrenchman turned in horror he saw four large, furry spiders closing in on him.  
  
Take me out of here, now! cried Wrenchman as an arachnid claw descended upon his rucksack.  
  
Told you so, said the wooden box smugly. The air around Wrenchman shimmered, and he was gone. The Mini-Aragogs that had been attracted to the use of incorrect English skittered around confusedly, looking for the person who had been there mere seconds ago.  
  
And inside Hogwarts, a large brown-papered parcel was being concealed deep within the castle.


	2. The Fanwriter's Letters

Fender Blackorn liked to think of himself as a worldly, cynical person who had seen everything and didn't care. He was incorrect, partly because wealthy suburbia is hardly everything, and no one who doesn't care spends four hours each day trying to appear so.   
  
It was very late in the evening when Fender sat down at his computer and clicked onto the Internet, intending to check his mail to see if his latest story (concerning the angst-ridden account of Professor Snape's tortured childhood) had received any more rave reviews. Not that he really cared about reviews, he reassured himself. None of his readers would really understand that Fender was writing from experience, and that Professor Snape's life was a mirror of his own. Yeah. Sure.  
  
_From: Oooie Ooie Snape's My Cutie (anonymous)  
  
Wow, that was lik soooo deep. Gotta see what SNape does when he finds oout that his puppy's been run over by his own movin van. I luv ur story, u r such a good writr. Rite more soon  
  
~Snapie's Gurl  
  
_Fender rolled his eyes, trying not to look pleased. Of course he was a good writer, of course his stories had depth. He was, after all, the Deep Master of Fanfiction (a self-bestowed title). Adjusting his chair to be more comfortable, Fender was about to read the rest of his mail when something large and feathery alighted on his head.  
  
exclaimed the fanwriter, trying to swat the bird away and upsetting his chair in the process. The disgruntled teenager picked himself up and looked over at his computer, where sat a large horned owl, talons defiantly curled over his mouse.  
  
Who left a window open? asked Fender to no one in particular, trying to swat the bird away. It wouldn't budge, but instead dropped a heavy envelope that appeared from no where onto Fender's lap.  
  
Definitely had too much pop and nachos at that party, said Fender, wondering, as most do, if he were hallucinating. I have a letter, he said, voice somewhat higher than usual. After considering this for a moment, Fender changed his statement.  
  
I do _not_ have a letter, he said firmly, tossing the envelope into his trash can.  
  
The owl chucked another envelope in his direction, this one beaning him on the top of his head. Fender started to say, , but caught himself and tossed the second letter away. Then a third came, and a fourth. Then, it was a barrage of letters.  
  
Stop doing that! screamed Fender as the twentieth envelope landed in his hand. He stood up, nearly tripping over his chair as he hurried out of the room. The owl, not to be waylaid, flew after him. Fender had reached the foot of the stairs when the owl sent another envelope straight at the fanwriter. The letter zoomed through the air like a ninja throwing star, and impaled itself into the wall right beside Fender's hand. But unlike the other envelopes of yellow parchment, this one was bright red.  
  
Fender backed away. Smoking, the envelope tore itself open and formed a mouth.   
  
_FENDER BLACKORN,  
  
AFTER IGNORING OUR FIRST TWENTY LETTERS, WE FELT THAT SOMETHING VOCAL MIGHT BE IN ORDER. YOUR FANFICTION IS TERRIBLE. YOU ARE CHARGED WITH MANGLING CHARACTERS TO SUIT YOUR OWN PURPOSE, AND FOR BLATANT DISREGARD OF CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM. BAD FANWRITER. NO SOUP FOR YOU.  
  
TO REMEDY SAID PROBLEM, YOU ARE HEREBY ENROLLED IN THE HOGWARTS FANFICTION ACADEMY (HFA). UPON GRADUATION YOU WILL BE PERMITTED TO WRITE ONCE MORE. THAT IS, IF YOU GRADUATE. PLEASE FILL OUT THE ATTACHED QUESTIONNAIRE SO THAT THE FACULTY AND STAFF OF HFA MAY ADEQUATELY CATER TO YOUR NEEDS AS A WRITER.  
  
DISREGARD OF THIS NOTICE WILL RESULT IN A PERMANENT LISP HEX AND FOUR YEARS EXPLAINING WHY YOU DECIDED TO ATTEND SCHOOL DRESSED AS PEE WEE HERMAN. HAVE A SPLENDID DAY.  
  
SINCERELY,  
  
MISS MEIR BRIN,  
HFA COORDINATOR., NOT YOUR FRIEND_  
  
Whimpering slightly, Fender shakily took the envelope in his hands and opened it. A transcript of the Howler's message was inside, complete with little side notes of his own actions in purple ink in the margins (At this point, Fender started shaking, After this was said, Fender wanted his mommy, and When he heard this, Fender nearly wet himself).  
  
The persistent owl threw a pen at Fender's head, just as the fanwriter came to a section filled with questions.   
  
Why do they want to know my preferred method of healing? mumbled Fender as he bypassed a section full of jargon that seemed to make no sense whatsoever (In terms of quails, we will say that you are a quail. HFA reserves the right to do what is best for the quail community, such as confine the quail, penalize the quail, or remove the quail from the quail community. The sentinel spiders of HFA like roast quail with garlic).  
  
The owl was looking at him again. Fender tried to edge away, but found a very sharp ballpoint pen nailing the hem of his jeans to the floor. Fender looked at the owl. The owl looked at Fender.   
  
Fender really hoped that those nachos he had had hadn't been ultra-barbecue or something, because hallucinations like the one he was having surely came with very large stomach aches the next day.  
  
Tentatively the fanwriter picked up one of the pens and sat down on the first step, not removing his eyes from the owl. Fender had never seen a live owl this close before. In fact, he couldn't even recall if he had _ever_ seen an owl before.   
  
Fender really, really hoped that this was a bad dream.  
  
Still, he was being forced to fill out the form. He scribbled his Internet handle, Fender Blackorn, onto the line that requested one's name (he always referred to himself as that, mostly because only wussy people were called , even if it was their grandfather's name), and continued down the list of questions.  
  
There were many indeed, and most seemed to refer to Harry Potter in some way or the other. Fender was perfectly fine with that, he knew the books (even the fifth one) like the back of his hand. Whether he chose to incorporate this knowledge into his stories was another matter, but, then again, no one was perfect.  
  
Preferred ship? wondered Fender. What are they talking about?  
  
A cloud appeared over the parchment, looking like a Windows help menu as designed by medieval scribes. Your ship is who you would like to see in the sack... read Fender painstakingly. The text was quite small, and seemed to be in Olde Englishe font.  
  
Well, he had always liked the idea of Snape and Hermione, and sometimes low-key Harry/Ron was quite good...   
  
Why am I even doing this? asked Fender out loud, throwing the letters aside. The owl hooted ominously from Fender's lintel. He had had it, this was just too ridiculous, entirely untrue, and he would wake up the next morning with a headache. Then he would bemoan the fact that a worldly person like himself had fallen victim to the common mistake of having too many nachos and coke before bed.  
  
The owl _tsk tsk_ed strangely, then fluttered down to the carpet where lay the discarded form. It was mostly filled out, so the owl picked it up in its claws and beak, then flew out the window. As soon as it had reached the open air, it vanished with a small _pop_, returning to the world from whence it had come.  
  
It would appear a little while later in the Oedipus Inferno, the covert secret headquarters of the Order of the Sphinx, where the letter would be processed and carefully filed away by Rhiannon and Neshomeh. The owl, in turn, would return to the Owlery, where Hedwig and Crookshanks were scheduled to lead a seminar on how to recognize and dispose of Cute Animal Friends. Painfully. As in, with a screwdriver.  
  
Fender, in the meantime, was able to fall asleep fully clothed on his bed for two hours of restless sleep. It was probably a good thing that he did sleep for those couple of hours, because he would never receive such rest in the year to come. It would be stretching it, though, to say that in the year to come he would never receive _any_ rest, though, because such times _would_ occur when Fender would be found lying down to recover.   
  
...But then again, being unconscious or in a coma cannot be truly termed .


	3. By Train, By Ship, By Giant Squid

Author's Notes: Just so you all know, I have received a _lot_ of enrollments. I will try to put you all into the story, don't worry, but also don't be disappointed if you don't make it in until a couple chapters in the future. I generally prefer to write the fanwriters in with speaking parts, not a five-second mention, so be patient.  
  
That said, I apologize for the delay. School's a beast.  
  
*********  
  
The train was full of the most hormonal people a person could ever hope to encounter. Every so often it would bump slightly, and another person would appear in a compartment. The normal process of events after that usually involved screaming, gibbering, denial, and squealing, not necessarily in that order.  
  
Fender Blackorn's arrival, however, went something like this:  
  
  
  
Welcome to HFA, fanwriter, said a passing canon character sarcastically, leaning into the compartment. Please try to stay seated, we will be reaching Hogsmeade shortly. If you need anything, there are others up front who will put you out of your misery.  
  
You're, you're--  
  
Blaise Zabini, yes, I know.  
  
Fender tilted his head slightly, screwing up his eyes. Are you male or female?  
  
Blaise shook his (her?) head sadly. Alas, many have guessed, and now it is not rightly known. Even though my name is masculine, so many of your kind think I'm female that I'm... rather neutral.  
  
At this point, Fender started gibbering. Blaise didn't seem to have noticed.  
  
It's kind of sad, really. I wish I knew. It would be a lot easier than having... both bits.  
  
said a girl who had just arrived at the door. That's disgusting, Zabini, sir... ma'am... sir. She turned her attention to Fender, who was smacking himself repeatedly with a copy of _AUs and You_, one of many textbooks that was piled up on the seat beside him.  
  
You all right? asked the girl.  
  
Dream, dream, dream, dream, dream, dream, chanted Fender, bashing his head into the thick book.  
  
It's not a dream, eh, whoever you are, said the girl awkwardly. Thought so too myself, but, well, it's real enough. Who are you, anyway?  
  
Fender tossed the text aside, fuming and avoiding eye-contact. Fender, Fender Blackorn.  
  
Wo-- err, nice to meet you, Fender, said the girl, extending a hand. She stumbled into the compartment just as Zabini slipped away, heading for an explosion that seemed to have occurred up in box two. Name's Phayn. Phayn Knarm-Doots, if you must know, but Phayn's fine with me.  
  
That's a weird name, said Fender sullenly.  
  
'Least I'm not named after part of a car, said Phayn.  
  
'Least I'm not some lusting fangirl.  
  
'Least I'm not some snarky fanwriter.  
  
This went on for several minutes, until the two were disrupted by a voice over the loud-speaker. And here we've finally arrived at scenic Hogwarts, said a voice that Fender immediately recognized as belonging to one of the Weasley twins.   
  
Home of HFA, added in Lee Jordan.  
  
And by that, your home for the next nine months as well, said the Weasley twin.  
  
Fred, should we not show our dear friends off of the train? asked a Weasley twin, who was, by default, George.  
  
agreed Fred.  
  
There was a cackle of malicious laughter, and Fender flew through the air and straight through the side of the train. He landed in a heap atop a pile of people, most of which were female. Phayn was probably the first to get up, with the eagerness of a demented squirrel.  
  
Oo, oo, I'm back! squealed Mystikalolo. I've missed you so! she cried, kissing the ground excitedly. Canon Characters! Love you! She ran over to a nearby wizard with his back to the group and hugged him around the middle. Mystikalolo yelped and fell over, her hair having been transfigured into live, pink caterpillars. Missed that too! squealed the second-year student as Mad-Eye Moody stalked off irritably.  
  
What is this place? asked Fender dumbly, brushing dust off of his black shirt.   
  
This is HFA, said Venya Smith helpfully. You're a first-year, huh? she prodded. Never been to classes before? Oh, you're going to like this, said she with the air of a knowledgeable veteran.  
  
This irked Fender. He always wanted to be the superior one, and never liked when others were ranked above him. That was one of the reasons that he had dropped out of the Boy Scouts so early; he just couldn't take people the same age as he having more badges than he did. Yet upon reflection, Fender realized that that was just stupid. Boy Scouts was a terrible way to showcase his excessive talent, and being forced to earn badges was pointless when you could be writing dark angst.  
  
First-years vith me, please, said a man with a thick Bulgarian accent. Fender left off glowering at Venya Smith and did an excellent double-take. _That_ was Viktor Krum? It had to be, he was round-shouldered and duck-footed. But, was it _really_ him?  
  
His question was answered when a girl with thick brown hair came up beside him. All right, pen-friend Viktor? asked the girl awkwardly. It was unmistakably Hermione Granger.  
  
Of course, pen-friend Hermione, said Krum, somewhat forced.  
  
Returning students will come with me, said Hermione severely, ignoring a couple of confused fanwriters. The rest of you are going to be Sorted, so board the boats and don't give Mr. Bagman and Mr. Lockhart any problems.  
  
A few minutes later, Fender found himself sitting on a small wooden boat with Elizabeth, Jedipati, and Phayn, trying to ignore the sloshing sound of the water as it steadily crept into the vessel. Fender didn't like boats. That shouldn't come as a surprise, because Fender didn't really like anything, but he absolutely detested boats.   
  
At the head of the flotilla, a miniature yacht was leading the way steadily across the lake. Ludo Bagman and Gilderoy Lockhart lounged at the keel drinking banana cocktails as Mini-Aragogs propelled the vessel skillfully. They were drunkenly singing something that Fender recognized as the Oompa Loompa song, which drifted back to the fanwriters over the water.  
  
...What do you get with an ignorant prat, think's e can write, we'll see about that; ship em off to H an' F an' A, after that I doubt e'll have much to say...  
  
I think they're singing about you, Fender, said Phayn, smirking at him. Fender glowered and tried to lean back nonchalantly, as if he hadn't heard her, but unfortunately found himself overbalancing, and sliding out of the boat into the water.  
  
He hit the frigid lake with a smack, and started flailing about as his senses tried to react and grab the boat. Off in the distance, the theme from started to play, most likely coming from the Death Eater picnic on the lake's left shore. Several of the fanwriters swiveled around in their boats to see what had happened, including Morgan Sapire, who tried to sidle her boat up next to Fender in order to haul him out. Or perhaps hit him with her paddle. One never could tell at HFA.  
  
The theme reached an ominous crescendo, and Fender suddenly flew out of the water, a large black tentacle wrapped around his waist, heaving him above the heads of the fanwriters. Fender retched as the giant squid began to wave him back and forth like a child's rattle. He slapped the squid's appendage, trying to make it let go, when the creature began speeding through the water in a circle around the lake (Oh look, Ludo! A ride! I want a ride, too! I as well, Gilderoy! Can we afford one? I only have -he burped, checking his pockets- two sickles! I wonder if we could use leprechaun gold?). A little while later, Professor McGonagall ran out of the castle and levitated Fender out of the squid's clutches. This was by no means an act of kindness, as once the squid had let go, she allowed Fender to plummet headfirst into the water before bringing him to the dock.  
  
The fanwriter lay gasping in a wet heap, coughing up bile. Kaitlyn Jackson and Lavender DuBois-Black gave him a wide berth as they entered the castle, following Hermione. Fender tried to crawl over the side when a large hand grabbed him by the shoulder and heaved him into a standing position.  
  
At least yer not belchin' up slugs, though? Tha's the good part, eh, boy? asked Hagrid, trying to slap the water off of Fender's clothes and incidentally causing some bruising that wouldn't fade until the second semester.  
  
Good part? This is hor-hor-horrible! coughed Fender, wrenching himself out of the half-giant's grip. An authority figure, this was what he was looking for. Now he could go home. To his miserable existence of a life, he thought mournfully. Who told you you could take me here?! he shouted indignantly.  
  
You signed th'papers, shrugged Hagrid. Come on up ere, th' sortin's already started.  
  
Fender had to walk quickly to slip through the great doors to the castle just after *Katrina*, whose name was already giving her friends trouble as they tried to pronounce the asterisks. His feet slapped like wet haddocks on the flagstones, drawing even more attention to himself. Fender stuck his chin out proudly and put his nose in the air. _He_ was the Deep Master of Fanfiction, and it was merely the unluckiness of his dark and tormented soul that had caused him to become the giant squid's play toy.  
  
The fanwriters came to a bottleneck at the top of the stairs, where they bunched together. Fender sighed and bobbed up and down, trying to see what the fuss was about.   
  
Welcome to HFA, fanfiction writers, said a woman's voice suddenly. Fender elbowed past LeoD and Mina Pizzini to the front of the crowd, where stood a tall dark-haired woman. At last, someone else he could complain to, thought Fender.   
  
My name is Meir Brin, said the woman, looking at the assembled masses appraisingly. Owing to our new curriculum, however, you shall call me Miss Brin and nothing else. I am the HFA coordinator, and will be handling most of your complaints throughout the year. Those of you who actually read the forms will know that you are here to learn the art of writing good fanfiction. Those of you who didn't bother to read will be discovering that shortly when Argus Filch and Mad-Eye Moody set you to running the gauntlet of personal pronouns.  
  
We have two rules at HFA. One, _thou shalt not glomp_-  
  
What's asked Zahri Seb Melitor from the back of the crowd.  
  
Sirius Black chose that unfortunate moment to dash through the corridor, straightening his collar (...no peace for the dead), as he rushed to the Great Hall. Hel Whistlebane screeched and launched herself at him like an arrow from a bow. She latched onto his ankle, clawing at his pant leg like an overexcited puppy, except that puppies usually aren't trying to disrobe their masters when they do such things.  
  
In a few seconds, that was not the only clawing' that was going on.  
  
Four-foot tall spiders descended from the ceiling as if they were on a mission to infiltrate the building. In an instance they had removed Hel Whistlebane from Sirius, rolled her up in glossy spider thread, and dragged her into the Great Hall, chanting something that sounded suspiciously like yo-yos, yo-yos, yo-yos...  
  
That is what we at HFA term glomping'. The Mini-Aragogs do not like it, as you can well see, said Miss Brin, smiling amusedly. Fender decided instantly that he did not like this person one iota. Our other rule is that you report any original characters that you see lurking about. We don't like those here either, as most of the second-year students will attest to.  
  
Phayn bounced up and down excitedly, grinning like an idiot. _I_ like original characters! she exclaimed, tripping on her own shoelace.  
  
Miss Brin smiled in a way that suggested that she would rather not go there. If that's how your muse bites you. In any case, you are here now, and you are going to be sorted. We have four houses here, Wantingmor, Lusterbuff, Canonlaw, and Slashering. Come with me, and _don't_ touch the canon characters under pain of, well, to be quite frank, pain.  
  
The HFA coordinator turned and lead the group into the Great Hall. Fender was annoyed. He was going to be Sorted? To have to put on that old hat in front of all these, these, _fangirls_?! At least it was just a hat. He could suffer to let the hat descend upon his brow, to tell him of his might as a writer, to inform the crowd that he, Fender, was above schooling, that his skills were already perfectly honed...  
  
This should be fun! said Lavender DuBois-Black. Just putting the hat on, just like Harry... I wonder where my Sirius is?  
  
I wonder if it'll sing for us? asked Suzine, patting her hair nervously. Note to self... Must find Tom Riddle, whipped cream... and handcuffs, yes, handcuffs...  
  
You're mental, said Cassie-Romie. She then perked up, as if something inside her head had addressed her. That's right, Sirius, I can't wait to see this either. I doubt it will be that difficult, right? We all _know_ Potterverse, don't we? She threw a skeptical look at the ceiling, where Hel Whistlebane had become the spider's piñata. And we won't be, you know, wrestling trolls' or anything...  
  
Fender snorted superiorly. Wrestling trolls... At least _he_ wasn't juvenile enough to quote the books like that. Wrestling trolls, indeed...  
  
Up above him, the Ironic Over-power was taking notes.  
  
Wonder what house I'll be in? asked Erin Mirestone, changing the subject. I've never heard of Lusterbuff before, do you suppose they polish the floors here?  
  
Winky is doing that, Miss, said a squeaky voice beside her, and the girl jumped as Winky the house-elf darted past her and into the Great Hall.  
  
Even Fender lifted his head from sulking to look around at the place. It was a lot bigger that what he had imagined in the books, with nine tables instead of the customary five. Four in the back were filled with canon characters, while the professors and some people Fender didn't recognize had the staff table. Four tables placed between them seemed to have been set aside for the fanwriters, as they were quite charred, and one of the benches was rocking back and forth all by itself. There were already people sitting there, wearing cloaks in the pastel shades of the Hogwarts house colors. Up ahead would be the hat, that would tell him he was wonderful...  
  
There was not a stool with a tattered old hat. Instead there was a chain. And attached to the chain was a large, drooling mountain troll.  
  
Well, here you are, said Miss Brin cheerfully. First one to get him pinned goes to Wantingmor...  



	4. Back in the Swing of Things at HFA

_Canon breaks like egg,  
Full of un-Potterverse things  
Stupid Fanwriters.  
  
Wantingmors the first  
Love books to death and beyond  
Leeches glomp canon.  
  
Lusterbuff Fangirls  
Romance forever! they say  
Stampeders are warned  
  
Canonlaw's less strict  
Crossovers, AUs, humor  
Pigeons on blue field  
  
Slashering so dark  
Angsty, dark, bloody --slash too  
Just don't tell Lucius.  
  
See the Sorting Hat  
Think you are great, fanwriter?  
I laugh evilly._  


  
The Sorting Hat inclined its point in each direction, bowing at the applause of the few canon characters lounging around the Hospital Wing. After a thousand years of rhyming poetry, the Sorting Hat had decided to try something new. Something new involved reading large amounts of international poesy and finally deciding that haikus were the way to go.  
  
A good start, indeed, said Miss Brin, pacing down the Hospital Wing's center aisle. The entire class of first-year students were there, most of them concussed. Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout were making their way around to each of the beds, slipping the Sorting Hat over each unconscious brow. The Hat would then announce which House the lucky (or unlucky) fanwriter was assigned to, usually putting an end to the fanwriter's coma.  
  
Reporting, Miss Brin, said a voice behind her, and the HFA coordinator turned to see Ally White striding forward, smiling when she caught the looks of the new students. I'm really glad I'm not there, she said sheepishly.  
  
shouted the Sorting Hat, and Pentunia the Mini-Aragog scuttled up to grab Rachel's arm and drag her off to Gryffindor tower.  
  
Yes, especially once the classes start, said Miss Brin, pulling out a packet of papers that appeared to have been written in purple crayon. Not again! He keeps giving me copies of this even though we specifically LVJ that he was _not_ going to be to teaching that Joys of Explicit, Explicit Violence' class!  
  
yelled the Sorting Hat as Fawkes was toted away by a couple spiders.  
  
I think they're up to something, said Ally. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Laughed-At has been holed up in his den ever since you caught him trying on the Darth Vader helmet, and that was weeks ago.  
  
screeched the Hat.  
  
...Snape? But I brought the toothpaste like you asked... mumbled Akki Aino incoherently as she was bound with spider thread.  
  
I think Tom Riddle's finally given up on him, said Miss Brin. I can't really blame him, but I think I will be pitying the students before long if his Evilness is running unchecked among them.  
  
Speaking of unchecked among them', has Tonks reported back yet?  
  
No word, replied Miss Brin. How is Umbridge doing?  
  
Speak of devil, said Ally, and in rushed Dolores Umbridge, eyes wide, breath quick, fingers wringing a neon orange handkerchief to threads. She had finally settled into a state of nervous pomposity, as one of the most despised Potterverse characters.  
  
Where are the little devils? sputtered Umbridge. Writing stories about myself and Professor Snape! Discipline! They must have discipline! And, and...  
  
They are still fairly comatose at the moment, remarked Ally as Tisea Spirits and Lantarmiel were bundled off to Slashering. I would look in on the second-years, if you are really worried. I feel like such a traitor, she added, blushing.  
  
Umbridge drew herself up to her meager height and addressed the fanwriters, who were unsurprisingly unresponsive. _Hem, hem._ I, Professor Dolores Umbridge, Hogwarts High Inquisitor, to hereafter make it illegal to write subversive articles about my said person, whether they discuss my, ehem, love life, previous occupations, or predicted violent death.  
  
Miss Brin tried to placate her gently. Now, we really can't impose such a ban on the students, only give them consequences-- The HFA coordinator broke off suddenly, listening. What is that?  
  
There was a steady _clip-clop, clip-clop_ coming down the passage, the sound of hoofbeats. Umbridge paled almost immediately, then dove under Loopily's cot.  
  
The _clip-clops_ drew closer and closer, and Ally expected the head and shoulders of Firenze or Bane to round the corner. But instead, there came Em and Newmoon, holding two coconut halves maliciously. Ally covered her mouth to hold back giggles, and even Miss Brin looked to be on the verge of laughter.   
  
Where did you get those? mouthed Ally to the two members of the Order. This is a temperate zone.  
  
A little bird brought them, whispered Newmoon.  
  
African swallow? asked Ally.  
  
mouthed Em. The two stifled laughter as Umbridge began to quake under the bed.  
  
Go away before she comes to, mouthed Ally to the two. Newmoon grinned and gave a loud neigh before she and Em trotted back to the staff section, known to most as Aerobics Lair.  
  
I don't know what's going to happen this year, said Miss Brin, trying to contain her amusement. The reports from the Real World are already coming in about Movie the Third, and Sirius is feeling the swell of character sympathy--  
  
--often confused with character lust, interjected Ally. Anne, Jay Sea, and Tiger Lily Hamilton shifted in their sleep, muttering various things along the lines of It's not really a fixation... I mean, I wouldn't _die_ for him... So maybe I would, that doesn't mean... and Me want Lupin! Back, fangirl! Back, get back!  
  
--here in the fanficto-reality, finished Miss Brin as Mini-Aragogs hauled off the three students. And then there are the other, erm, _reports_.  
  
Ally shook her head. You mean those stupid campaigns? I can't see that lot getting any farther than maybe a couple of independent archives that keep actor-fics. They won't reach HFA. Ironic Over-power willing, of course, she added hurriedly.  
  
Just then, Fred and George Weasley sauntered into the infirmary, brushing dust off of their dragonhide jackets. Who do they think they are? asked Fred, assuming an affronted expression.  
  
they said together. Never learn, never will.  
  
Another attempted ambush? asked Ally.  
  
Dee Sarrachi and Vemi cut off some of the Mini-Aragog webbing and tried to make a net. A net! They think we amateurs, George! Fred grinned. I think they're experiencing the world from a spider-thread yo-yo. I never knew Flinch and Flich were so vindictive.  
  
They were going to enter that web in the weekly Charlotte's Web contest. No small matter fitting four sonnets onto a three-by-three foot web. If I could spin a web, I would be angry, too.  
  
And then there was what He-Who-Must-Giggle did to Kestin Stewart when he found her walking in front of bare wall patches, concentrating enough to make orange juice. He picked her mind bare, and found she was looking for the Room of Requirement, trying create a Private Snape Hot Tub Room'. Snape should be finishing up with her any time now.   
  
Ally winced. Snape was very _creative_ when it came to punishing his lusters. And the Ironic Over-power knew he had many of them. His tally in the staff wing was getting up there to rival Remus' and Sirius'.  
  
I wonder if the victims have received our gift baskets yet, asked George rhetorically. They had been plotting for a couple of months on how to give a proper welcome to the fanwriters, and had finally settled on providing them with large amounts of sugar.  
  
Hard to miss, I think we put them far enough in the open. Even if they don't see them, they'll still trip over them. The plan had been a good one. In fact, Luinramwen was finding out just how good in the Lusterbuff Common Room at that very moment.  
  
Seems such a waste, though, commented George. All of those Canary Creams.  
  
And Nosebleed Nougats.  
  
And Ton-Tongue Toffees.  
  
I think a Ten-Tongue Taffy might have slipped in as well, said Fred.  
  
George shrugged. It'll be their own fault if they eat _that_.  
  
It's their own fault such a thing exists, amended Fred.  
  
The two grinned. Identical, evil grins that would have sent any sane person to shivering. And probably any insane person, too, as Loopily's bed was shaking again (due to Professor Umbridge's choice of hiding spot).  
  
they said, chuckling insidiously, exiting the infirmary.  
  
Do these sort of things ever change? wondered Miss Brin. She turned to Ally as a sudden thought hit her. Oh, before my memory deserts me, Peeves and the Weasleys are holding a prank-athon next week, and I have received a gracious tipoff about performing some anti-toilet-papering charms on Aerobics Lair and Oedipus Inferno before it commences. That should hopefully limit their targets to the fanwriters' locales.  
  
Will do. Anything else?  
  
Sirius and Remus have both demanded a full contingent of Mini-Aragogs for their upcoming class. Plus guards from the Order.  
  
How many? asked Ally.  
  
  
  
That's not too-  
  
A piece.  
  
Ally rolled her eyes. I'll... ah... see what can be done, she said delicately. Haldir Syndrome, she muttered. Who would have thought that dying makes one so popular?  
  
He did die single, offered Miss Brin.  
  
That's what you think! said Mercuria, popping up suddenly. Sirius and Remus! Sirius and Snape! Lovers, all! Lovers, I tell you, they were all madly in love! she cried deliriously.  
  
Would you care to repeat that? said a soft, dangerous voice behind the second-year student.  
  
Mercuria froze. In the depths of her being, she knew that she was completely and utterly screwed. The Ironic Over-power congratulated itself on a job well done.  
  
Professor Snape, wonderful to see you, said Miss Brin. Finished the Contrapasso Potion so soon?  
  
said Snape coldly. After Ms. Kestin Stewart sprouted the singing antlers, I was forced to make a few alterations. I was just looking for volunteers for the second batch... Mercuria wailed as he dragged her off to the dungeon (but still managed to ogle him as they went). Some things never change.   
  
There was a clipped sort of pause, in which Miss Brin started to speak several times, but fell silent. ...The you-know-what has been hidden? she asked at last.  
  
Ally got the impression that Miss Brin was trying not to accuse her of not doing her job correctly. As best as it can be, she said tentatively. Even if they find the room, I doubt they will be able to enter, at least without tripping all of the fangirl sensors.  
  
It's not the fangirls I'm worried about, muttered Miss Brin, brushing clipped hair out of her eyes. She looked up quickly to make sure that statement hadn't been taken the wrong way, but Ally didn't appear to have noticed.  
  
There was a great pause as the HFA Coordinator and the Head of the Order of the Sphinx watched Padama and Parfait the Mini-Aragogs escort Briana Marie off to Wantingmor (amid unconscious protests of Not the slash! Anything but the slash!). Then there was a wrenching feeling as the conversation changed track.  
  
started Ally. Heard the joke about Professor Umbridge and the werewolf?


	5. Plotting For Bunnies

Fender found himself in the Slytherin dormitory the following morning nursing a bruised ego. Tearing aside the curtains of his bed, he stumbled out to the Common area (dressed most unbecomingly in a pale green cloak. _So_ unlike the Deep Master of Fanfiction).   
  
What happened? he asked blearily, addressing the full room.  
  
We all got Sorted, said Cillie Holm. Welcome to Slashering.  
  
Fender sniffed and found an armchair in which to pout. This was not how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be made the master of this place. His writing skills were phenomenal, incomprehensible to the trite human mind...  
  
Hey! Bumper, wasn't it? said a loud, bubbly voice. Phayn tripped over a low study table and placed herself directly in front of him, smiling uncontrollably.  
  
That's _Fender_-- said the fanwriter irritably, trying to shrug her off.  
  
I knew you'd be in Slashering, said Phayn, Saw it a mile away. Want some breakfast? She shoved a plate full of round, bubblegum pink sausage links under his nose. House for slash and angsty dark-ficcers, she explained. Fits you perfectly.  
  
Yuck, no, he said, pushing away the foul-smelling food. What is that, anyway? And how did _you_ get in here, if it's for dark fics and slash? You don't look like a slasher to me, he said suspiciously.  
  
That's tantaflaf, supplied Black Ice, indicating the pink taffy-like substance. She burped, and up came a few canary feathers. Note to self: anything left out in gift baskets should definitely _not_ be eaten.  
  
Tantaflaf, hmm? said Phayn. She popped one of the sausage links into her mouth and chewed. Not bad. Her eyes unfocused, and Fender looked at her suspiciously.   
  
You all right?  
  
The girl's face suddenly turned a bright shade of purple. I... think I'm going to be sick... she moaned, running for the girl's dormitories on the other side of the cavern.  
  
It was thus that Fender didn't eat much for breakfast, and was quite hungry when the bell rang for the first class. He was swept up in a mass exodus from the dormitory, the students' fear of the Mini-Aragogs compromised by the pervading desire to find their lust-objects.   
  
The fanwriters eventually formed a sort of collective in the Entrance Hall, not sure where they were to go, but, according to Ye Olde Law of Strength in Numbers, were sticking together better than gum that has been in a back pocket for days on end. Cotume27 and Hermione8meg were bonding almost solely on the principle that both had numbers in their names, while Kaylin had commandeered a corner of the hall and was practicing martial arts in a manner that caused a passing Beauxbatons exchange student to comment, I'm glad she's not one of _my_ lusters.  
  
said an excited voice suddenly. The clatter of hoofs filled the hall, and the fanwriters bunched together. A few excited Wantingmors started squealing about Firenze. They were sadly disappointed, though, when Luna Lovegood rode into the area on the back of a... Well, it was most definitely equine...  
  
Luna! What do you bloody well think you're doing? Ron appeared on the second level, accompanied by his usual fanfare of girlish sighs from the crowd gathered below. He was carrying a broomstick on his shoulder, and appeared to have just come back from the Quidditch pitch. Abby attempted to dash up after him (though whether her target was Ron or the broomstick was unclear), but caught her foot in the trick step and was subsequently dragged out by Ran and Weasily the Mini-Aragogs. 'S dangerous down there, continued Ron, You could get glomped! And what did you _do_ to that Abraxan?  
  
It was some sort of flying horse, thought Fender weakly. Some sort of flying horse with paper maché on its head and dishpans hanging off of it.  
  
It's a Crumple-Horned Snorkak! said Luna excitedly. My dad and I caught him outside!   
  
An unreadable look crossed Ron's face (unreadable at least to Fender. Those who socialized regularly knew that it said you're mental quite plainly). Just come up here before that thing hurts itself, said Ron.  
  
The sound of evil giggling caught Fender's attention, and he saw Lord Voldemort Sr. standing in in the shadows of an alcove. I ask myself, how did that work so well? And then I tell myself, surely I could not have thought up a better plan. But then I realize that I am Lord Vold--  
  
Tom Riddle elbowed him sharply in the stomach. He had a sort of baby-carrier strapped over his chest, and didn't look to pleased about it, especially as LVJ (Lord Voldemort Jr.) was currently occupying the harness. What was the point of letting the Lovegoods capture some beast we dressed up as a Cormple-whatsits?  
  
In the form of a question, gurgled LVJ.  
  
That was a question, Riddle shot back.  
  
Not a rhetorical question, babbled LVJ.  
  
I wanted it answered, said Riddle heatedly. It can't be a rhetorical question if I want _him_ to answer it, he pointed to Lord Voldemort Sr. roughly.  
  
I ask myself, did we not agree on a unified mode of speech? And then I wonder, why does young Tom not comply with things we have already discussed? He is not dissatisfied, certainly? condescended the (relatively) elder Voldemort.  
  
Riddle clenched and unclenched his fists, then said in a perfect monotone, I ask myself, why did we dress up that wretched horse-creature as a Crumple-Horned Snorkak.  
  
I ask myself the same question, replied Lord Voldemort Sr. pensively.  
  
Fanwriters! Fanwriters! called Professor McGonagall's strict voice. Come, we are holding your first class en masse on the lawn, hurry up, you there, stop leering at Mr. Weasley... Fender was jerked out of his state of audience and pulled along with the crowd into the crisp air.  
  
He was sure to take his seat a little apart from the other fanwriters. He was waiting for someone to discover that he was no mere author of fanfiction, but one of the greats. And one could not do that when one was squashed between Kat the Confident (covertly plotting to capture Snape) and Diana (covertly plotting to do away with Kat).  
  
Attention, attention all of you. Settle down, said Percy Weasley imperiously (a low hiss went through the assembled masses). Percy became temporarily deaf and continued on with what was probably the first page of their textbooks, if anyone had bothered to look.  
  
You are about to embark upon a class that will be of great asset to you in the future. If you don't think that this class is an asset, then you are obviously an idiot, and shall be become the living diver' for the Mini-Aragogs' skrewt aquarium. This class is the cornerstone of all good fanfiction--  
  
Get on with it, yelled A Watcher Formerly Known as Europa impatiently. It was a Suzine, a renegade Percy-luster, however, that caught her first (in place of the Mini-Aragogs), and Weazly and Wealey instead sat by, giving marks for speed, accuracy, and pain. In HFA, if the Mini-Aragogs didn't get you, the rival lusters did.  
  
Percy readjusted his glasses importantly and shuffled his papers. As I was saying. This class is known as Planning Your Plots', and will focus on coming up with story ideas, fleshing them out, and creating a decent fanfiction. It is not time to plot your plans' for catching your lust-idols, and any fanwriter caught doing something not conducive to this course will be launched into the lake via Those-Who-Must-Snigger-Incessantly-When-One-Is-Trying-To-Concentrate's trebuchet.  
  
Fender tapped his foot on the wet ground boredly. When would they skip the threats and get to the good stuff? Preferably the part about him being made Lord-On-High of Fanfiction.  
  
The squeeing of a large portion of the fangirls broke Fender's delusional reverie, and he looked up at the platform to see what had caused the problem. Curses. For a second he had thought something _interesting_ had happened, but it was just Charlie Weasley and Hagrid carrying a large, reinforced wooden crate. Charlie nodded coldly to Percy, and started to put on large, dragonhide gloves. The box rocked ominously. A hush fell over the crowd.  
  
In this crate, began Percy, reveling in his audience's rapt attention, the staff of HFA have managed to procure the coalesced forms of stories. Stories that have remained unwritten for so long that they have become wild and ferocious. The more... vicious... creatures we have kept under lock and key, as fanwriters such as yourself could never hope to handle such frightening monsters. Here is a moderate one, and it is still a terror to all who see it. Behold and tremble! he said dramatically, in a gesture reminiscent of Lockhart, the plotbunnies of despair!  
  
Hagrid reached his hand into the box and pulled out a large, gray-speckled rabbit with glowing white eyes. Holding it by its scruff far from his body, he passed it carefully to Charlie, who cradled it delicately in his arms.  
  
Someone snorted. Kinsey and Cat giggled. Percy looked down at the crowd, outraged. Charlie turned the plotbunny's face from the group so that its face was buried in his shirt. More laughter ensued.  
  
It's just a wee little bunny! said Des Metallium.   
  
Well, if you think it's such a walk in the park, then you surely won't find it difficult to capture, sniffed Percy haughtily. In fact, if any of you manage to catch this plotbunny, I'll even waive the rules and let you write the story it inspires!  
  
A flurry of whispers rose up from the crowd of fanwriters. Dragonlet, Nienna Clear-Light, and Geminii huddled together and started outlining a plan. Fender sneered. He didn't need to catch a plotbunny to write a story, he was divinely inspired to write wonderful fanfiction to begin with.  
  
Are ye sure about this? whispered Hagrid to Percy, who ignored him.   
  
Release the bunny! announced Percy, throwing his arms wide as if about to dive into the lake. Charlie shrugged and placed the plotbunny next to his feet. It sniffed the air, and hopped less than a foot away from its original position.  
  
The fanwriters surged forward. There were a couple muffled screams as some of the more aggressive students trampled the others.   
  
It might be a good Snape/OC story! exclaimed Juliet Norrington, running down Lily Took in an attempt to reach the plotbunny.  
  
Forget the original character, it could be a plausible Draco/Ron! cried Annonomouse.  
  
De Vil and Moria managed to scramble onto the platform where the plotbunny was still sitting docilely. De Vil reached moved to tackle the creature, but before she could get a firm hold, it had evaded her completely, causing the fanwriter to overbalance and topple into the lake. With a superhuman leap (especially mighty for such a small creature), the plotbunny soared over the heads of the fanwriters and landed on the ground near the entrance. As soon as it hit the earth it became a white blur that dashed into the castle and was not seen again until a much later date.  
  
I would have thought that would be a simple one for them to catch, said Bill Weasley casually, climbing up onto the platform with his brothers. That was Harry, Ron, and Hermione Go to the Beach', wasn't it?  
  
said Charlie, a tad disappointed that Harry, Ron, and Hermione Go to the Beach' had run off. I doubt we'll find it now.  
  
That's not a very rare one, though, said Bill. The fanwriters should have had no trouble at all catching it. In fact, _it_ should have bitten _them._  
  
Percy adjusted his glasses smugly. Plotbunnies don't bite fanwriters, they bite their muses. And that won't be happening at all after we handicapped the things. No fanfiction-writing means no fanfiction-writing. Whenever the fanwriters sit down to write Potterverse fanfiction, their muses go on vacation. They can write other things if they like, of course, but their muses have direct orders, for the good of the fandom--  
  
Bill held up his hand to cut Percy off. Hold a minute. Is that even possible? Restricting a person's muse?  
  
Percy's smugness became a palpable aura. We have _it_ here. Of course it can be done.


	6. How Not to Get Wapped With MWPP

Fender was nursing a bruised ego (plus wrist, shoulder, and spleen) as he sat down at the Slashering table for lunch. He had not had a good first week of school. To start with, he kept getting trampled by mobs of fangirls going after their lust-objects in his classes, and he was not looking forward to having How Not to Get Wapped with MWPP' after lunch, which promised to be similar. As not being of the glomping persuasion, Fender was usually dragged down by the Lusterbuffs when he attempted to fight the crowds swarming to Draco and Snape. Then there had been the memorable time that Juliet Norrington had mistaken him for young!Snape, and he had run into Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy in his flight (Juliet Norrington had run off as well, screaming Disinfectant! Disinfectant!). Note to self: never cross the Black women, he reminded himself, rubbing the patchy burn on his shoulder.  
  
He stirred his onion soup with his good hand, and looked around the hall. HFA was certainly different from what he was used to. Instead of sitting in his own corner of the cafeteria, he was squashed between fellow fanwriters, most of which were girls. If Fender had been a particularly hormonal youth, he would have spent his days in euphoric bliss (especially after being mistaken for a younger Severus Snape, considering the character's popularity among the ladies. Go figure). However, owing to his snobbish contempt for fangirls, he considered the Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy no paradise.  
  
Yay yay yay yay yay! squealed the high-pitched voice of Phayn Knarm-Doots. I can't believe we have em-wapp class again!  
  
Fender looked up to see the giddy girl sit down across from him. he asked pointedly. You are perhaps referring to MWPP?  
  
Only stodges call it MWPP, say it with me, said Phayn excitedly.  
  
Fender rolled his eyes. 'Em-wapp'. Happy now?  
  
Phayn bounced up and down in her seat, accidentally overturning a pitcher of pumpkin juice onto Fyrheafoc, who hissed and bared her fangs at her. Yes I am! Nothing better than a class with Remus, Sirius, and Sevvie-kins!  
  
Never would have pegged you for a Snape-luster, scowled Fender, pulling out a notebook so that he could draw bats and wolves in the margins. He wasn't a particularly good artist, he just liked giving his possessions an aura of darkness.  
  
Oh, but I am! said Phayn, grinning from ear to ear. She wrung her hands excitedly under her chin. Snapie and me, we're going to get married, and he'll--  
  
He wouldn't marry you, interjected Fender. What kind of a person do you think he is?  
  
I bet he's a real sweetie on the inside! gushed Phayn.   
  
Oh, come on, said Kayl leaning over from her table to join the conversation. Maybe Snape's not as bad as he seems, but he'll never be a sweetie'. He'd need the right person... probably not you.  
  
said Phayn defensively, an odd expression in her eyes. She took a moment to regain her composure before calling out to Eris Conner, a girl Fender knew to be a member of Sevvie's Angels, Isn't Snape the best guy in the canon?  
  
No way! argued Aki_sama, a Canonlaw. Remus is _so_ the best out there! Come on, what woman can't love man who bleeds monthly?  
  
At the staff table, Lupin buried his face in his hands and wept.  
  
You made him cry, said Megan Trades. And to answer your question... Sirius could.  
  
Lupin stood drunkenly, mumbling something incoherent about dead decency. He ran into Sirius on his way out of the Great Hall, looked at him, screamed, and dashed off.  
  
Well, what about Blaise Zabini? protested Moria, joining the lust-object praise-fest.   
  
Robin O'Brien gave her a funny look. You know, if Blaise had a definite gender, I don't think that would be as weird. He... she... it... Blaise Zabini is kind of... androgynous, at the moment.  
  
I lust after male!Blaise, clarified Moria, pronouncing her exclamation point with a slight click of the tongue.  
  
At the Slytherin table near the doors, Pansy Parkinson and Draco glanced at Blaise Zabini, who was looking rather effeminate that day. Blaise shook his/her head as the two snickered quietly. Pansy took up chanting Bla-ise's got a lust-er _sotto voce_.  
  
Come fanwriters, said the merry yet commanding voice of Professor Dumbledore. Wantingmors and Lusterbuffs to the Potions classroom for Practical Wizardry', Slasherings and Canonlaws have How Not to Get Wapped with MWPP' in the History of Magic room. Fender ground his teeth as Dumbledore pronounced the word as well. As the Great Hall gradually emptied of fanwriters, Dumbledore commented to Professor McGonagall, It is so nice to see such committed young people these days.  
  
You have not born the brunt of their creativity', I see, she said.  
  
Perhaps not as much as some. But then again, it is always nice to see that one is considered a father-figure to so many daughters, said Dumbledore pleasantly. Even if they are Vambiolatos.  
  
Before entering the History of Magic classroom, Fender was subjected to a most humiliating ritual: the Order of the Sphinx Security Check.  
  
Place all forbidden items here, said Jocelyn, indicating a tray. This includes deus ex machina love-pendants, purity talismans, mace, fog-pills, powdered sugar, and dementors.  
  
OrangeKitty grumbled as she handed over the portable fifty-foot collapsible lobster crate that Lizzy Addams had sold her in order to capture the Giant Squid. Molly Morgan examined it with a jeweler's glass, then tossed it in a heap with a large ruby, four rolls of rice paper dotted with finger paint, and a dead chipmunk. None of us are hiding dementors under our cloaks, said the Slashering dispiritedly.  
  
I am, said Minister Fudge. He was driven away by a loud chorus of from the fanwriters.  
  
Fender stood staring at the ceiling as Pineapple Queen, another member of the Order of the Sphinx, frisked him for concealed weapons. Why she was doing this, Fender didn't know, but assumed it had something to do with the rabid Sirius/Remus slashers who didn't take We're just friends for an answer.  
  
A phalanx of Mini-Aragogs formed a sizable barrier between the instructor's area and the fanwriter's amphitheater seating. Like the Great Hall, the History of Magic classroom had been magically expanded to accommodate such a large number of students. Talking quietly with their backs to the class, Lily Evans, James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew provoked an undercurrent of squeeing from the fanwriters. Fender's lip curled disdainfully.  
  
Settle yourselves, said James Potter. This isn't a drool-fest, it's a class.  
  
A very important class, at that, added Lupin. This course is to teach you about our times at Hogwarts, the Marauder Era' as some of you have affectionately termed it.  
  
Before we crack down on your sorry hides, we have compiled a list of complaints and common inconsistencies found in MWPP stories that we would like to address, said Sirius.   
  
Crack down on _my_ sorry hide, Remus! said Comicqueen217.  
  
The Marauders gave her a funny look as Lily took out a long list. The fanwriters shifted uncomfortably in their seats, glancing nervously at their neighbors.  
  
Item number one: James and I did not get together in our first year. This should be common knowledge to you, if you have all dutifully read Order of the Phoenix', said Lily, glaring at a couple Canonlaws in the front row. All of us were only eleven at the time. Were _you_ kissing when you were eleven? A couple of fanwriters appeared as if they were about to speak, but James shot them a glare that sent them cowering in their chairs.  
  
You got a whole _chapter_ of MWPP in the Order of the Phoenix, said Remus pointedly. Work off of that, please.  
  
I would also like to point out that I was not a malicious back-stabbing traitor through my seven years of Hogwarts, added Pettigrew hesitantly. I would appreciate if I wasn't maligned in every one of your stories...  
  
Kellie Owens and Phoenix Flight managed to convey a boatload of disbelief and disdain without making a sound. Kellie, who was a second-year, had attempted to warn the Canonlaws about Pettigrew's testiness when it came to his past. Only a few had listened. Slightly, the only student to request the form of a rodent, went up to one of the non-listeners and bit her ankle.  
  
Lucius Malfoy has also asked that we point out that he did not attend school with us, said Sirius Black. He's at least five years our senior, if not more.  
  
But, but, protested a fanwriter in the front row. Isn't a Malfoy a Potter's sworn enemy?  
  
James rolled his eyes. Jamed, Poter, attack, he said, and the Mini-Aragogs of those designations swarmed forward, dragging the offending fanwriter out of the classroom, muttering underneath the clacking of their pincers.  
  
Malfoy is my _son's_ schoolboy nemesis, said Lily, _tsk_ing. James and Severus were the ones always going at it in our days. You will recall this _important plot point_ from the Philosophical Sorcerous Stone book?  
  
Remus leaned over and whispered something in Lily's ear, and she blushed. That's what I meant. Philosopher's Stone or Sorcerer's Stone...  
  
Moving on, said James Potter. You realize that we were children of the 70s, right? We did not have computers, or cellphones, or video games when we were growing up. Research the period if you were not alive then!  
  
Dippy raised her hand. Fender had already heard about Dippy in his brief time at HFA. Apparently, the Order of the Sphinx already had a whole stack of papers on her in Oedipus Inferno. Sirius inadvertently took a step backwards when she spoke. Rumor had it that Phaidra, a Wantingmor, was developing a plan to capture Sirius and sell him to Dippy for a large sum of money, chocolate, and, for some odd reason, pipe cleaners. Does this mean that Sirius and Remus went to a disco? asked Dippy, a hint of a squee in her voice.  
  
Errr... Let's not go there... said Remus tactfully, causing a couple girls to swoon. The next point on our list has to deal with the secondary characters that you use in your stories.  
  
You may make up characters until Canon states something about who went to Hogwarts in our year. But this does not give you the right to make up background Vambiolatos, said Lily vehemently.  
  
Most of the MWPP stories we've looked seem to exist solely to put a Sue in to chase Remus or Sirius, said James. And while we're on the subject, where on earth does it state that Sirius _ever_ wore black leather?  
  
He had a flying motorcycle, rationalized Ekwy slowly, flinching as the canon characters looked in her direction. Bikers wear leather?  
  
Fanon assumption, very overdone, said Remus. Use fanon sparingly, please. I _know_ it's a properly held notion that I was bitten on my shoulder, that Sirius wore black leather day in and day out, and that Snape had a crush on Lily--  
  
He _did_?! blurted Lily Potter. I am going to have a nice long talk with Severus, she fumed. Really, you stop a guy from being de-pantsed and they think you're the be-all and end-all of existence... she groused.  
  
What I was going to say, continued Remus, is that fanon theories -educated guesses and conceptions held about the Canon but not necessarily true- become cliches if they are used too often. Be warned. I doubt any of you would like to run into a Cliche around here.  
  
That's very true, said Demosthenes from a few rows ahead of Fender.  
  
This brings us to the last item on our list, said James Potter. I would like to talk about the effects of living in a time of serious danger. Voldemort was on the rise while we were attending Hogwarts, and you cannot conveniently ignore this when writing novel-length. Those were dark days, we were all in very serious danger--  
  
James was cut off as two girls up in the front row started giggling. 'Sirius, danger, go fetch help, boy!' chuckled one of them. They stopped abruptly when they realized that Sirius was glaring at them, a livid expression on his face.  
  
Do not use Sirius' puns here...! hissed Black, brandishing his wand. This could get ugly... he growled, eyes darting toward the ceiling nervously. You've summoned the Flying Pun, you idiots!  
  
A small, demon-ish nun leapt out at the two girls, and started to maul them with a crimson herring. Between their shrieks, the two gasped out an apology to Sirius Black, who had ducked for cover under the desk. The Flying Pun didn't especially like HFA. The Flying Pun didn't especially like Sirius, the origin of so many of its children at HFA.  
  
This place keeps getting more _stupid_ by the second, muttered Fender in the last row, ignoring the circus taking place a couple yards in front of him. Not only had the class been an utter waste of his oh-so-valuable time, but every single faculty member had pronounced it .


	7. Antagonist Interlude

He threw aside the paper violently and pressed his face to the cool glass. An internal monologue of curses that would have caused Mundungus Fletcher to blush (or, at the very least, buy him a drink) pushed aside all other thoughts. The law books lay forgotten on his desk.   
  
asked the young man anxiously.  
  
Shut up, Wrenchman, he said brusquely. So they won't help us. They don't see what disrespectful, ugly debauchery is polluting... He stopped and rubbed his forehead. How long has it been?  
  
Wrenchman thought of the two checks sitting next to his laptop, jammed into the library's copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The two checks that should have been five. Little under half a year, he said, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.  
  
Half a year and none of those-- he sputtered into silence. You were there, Wrenchman. You have been to those... places... You know what it is like, eh?  
  
It was... very cold, sir, said Wrenchman tentatively. Erm, lots of screaming. People running around with magic wands. One of the stories had... well... I'd call it an orgy, but I could be over-- He caught his boss's furious glance he amended swiftly. I've heard it's no where near as bad as what's going on in the Lord of the Rings' and Pirates of the Caribbean' areas, he added on what he hoped was a cheerful note.  
  
Oh, yes, he said sarcastically. That would be bloody wonderful if we _were talking about those fandoms_. Harry Potter', Wrenchman. That's what we're here for, man.  
  
Wrenchman nodded and looked at his shoes.  
  
They will do nothing in this world, he said carefully. But then again, why exhaust our resources here... He turned to the young collegian. What is it they say about the best way to fix a problem...?  
  
That the first step is admitting that you have a problem? asked Wrenchman.  
  
No. The other thing.  
  
All's well that end's well?  
  
That would be for when we solve the problem, dimwit.  
  
'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step'? offered Wrenchman. That's what my Soc. professor says--  
  
I don't give a rat's ass what your Soc. professor says! yelled the man standing by the window. I'm going to get rid of this fanfiction _problem_ and make the Harry Potter fandom safe for little children again, like it's supposed to be! And if the courts won't make it illegal, we'll go to the root of the problem! he yelled, throwing a glass across the room.  
  
By asking the great authoress to put a stop to it? asked Wrenchman feebly.  
  
Tried that. She won't answer my email, said the man. But that's not the issue, he said, recovering quickly. The root of the problem, Wrenchman, surely this isn't _that_ difficult for that B-average mind of yours?  
  
Wrenchman figured that he had a fifty-fifty chance of answering correctly. Ah, well, there was his shot in the dark: The websites that house the... ahem... writing?  
  
The man turned on him, his voice reddening. No, you incompetent-- he choked back his curse. He had been trying to work on that for Miranda's sake. We're going to the root of the problem. The writers themselves.  
  
*********  
  
Malcolm Ruthander had always seemed mild-mannered, but that was before he found his own personal crusade. It had crazed him, and there was little left of the gentle spirit that had once been his own. The coil had worn off. There was steel beneath.  
  
It usually only works in the reverse, said Wrenchman over the whirr of the fan and the collective hum of seven or so computers lined up in a row. They can get out, but we can never get in. This should fix it...  
  
Ruthander settled down at one of the machines just as Wrenchman finished the connection. A tame one to begin with, he said, scrolling through the list of stories on the screen. Nothing dangerous that we will be spotted too quickly...  
  
_The Black Glass Wall by Fender Blackorn  
  
Professor Snape contemplates his torturous life through the other side of a wall of the darkest, deepest crystal. Will he choose to stay in a world where no one understand him? No Slash, Read and Review_  
  
A short smile touched the corners of Ruthander's mouth. This will do. Enter the URLs into the other machines... he instructed Wrenchman. And why did you set them up like this? A circle, man, not a bloody line.  
  
Wrenchman jumped and hurried to do what his boss said, moving the tables so that each monitor faced another. The white and purple screens glowed strangely in the dark room, giving Ruthander a shadowed and sickly complexion. Wrenchman brought up the same story on the other computers, and as he did it seemed that he could hear the faint chiming of a bell. He hadn't noticed that his palms were sweating until he sat down at the last computer and clicked onto fanfiction.net. The falls of his fingers on the keyboard seemed like thunder in the room as he typed in the URL. It loaded quickly. It was up.  
  
Hear it, Wrenchman! said Ruthander, laughing softly. Hear the other places... You have the device?  
  
Right here, sir, said Wrenchman, gulping. A small, black device that he had taken off an agent when she wasn't looking sat in the palm of his hand. Ruthander snatched it away, and threw it into the center of the computer ring.  
  
A crackle of electricity started from the device, and the screens shone more brightly than ever. The bell in Wrenchman's ear was deafening now, the glow of the computers blinding. Bright, bright, bright, bright...  
  
A strong hand grabbed his elbow roughly, and before he knew it he had been thrown forward into the plothole.  
  
*********  
  
It had a cool, musty smell to it. The air was damp, and candlelight flickered over his face as he struggled to regain his balance.  
  
Why in God's name is everything purple? asked Ruthander, rubbing his hands together briskly. Fanfiction full of the wrong colors... he muttered. Where are we?  
  
The dungeons, sir, said Wrenchman. I think that's Professor Snape, too.  
  
Ruthander looked over his shoulder at the tall man in black looking solemnly at his potions cabinet. There was something subtly wrong, though. He couldn't put his finger on it. Somewhere in the distance, an old violin started to wail mournfully.  
  
said Ruthander. He's a bit like I imagined.  
  
Snape burst into tears and tore at his shirt collar. Spots of blood appeared on his garments, and the Potions professor sank to the floor, curling up in a fetal position.  
  
Perhaps not, sir, said Wrenchman.  
  
breathed Ruthander. This place will do quite nicely, though, quite nicely indeed. He kicked aside the bawling Potions master and sat down in his chair, propping long legs up onto the desk. Resting his hands behind his head, he allowed himself to smile gently.  
  
Wrenchman shivered. Snape sobbed.  
  
intoned Ruthander. We have a schedule to maintain. Tie _that_-- he nudged Snape with his foot, up and put him in the closet. We'll need him later.  
  
Wrenchman nodded bitterly, removing the helpless character's wand from his person as he looped some rope around the Potions master. He tried not to think how many young fangirls would have loved to be in his position at that point in time.  
  
And you remembered the book? continued Ruthander. We'll need the mixture brewed just so. Then it will be as simple as... The man smiled and snapped his fingers. Ruthander regarded his henchman's hesitant expression. This is victory, Wrenchman, you stupid fool; can't you feel it?  
  
Wrenchman swallowed and nodded, lugging Snape into his own Potions cabinet. Most interestingly, he didn't try to fight, but merely started gibbering about how much his mother didn't love him.  
  
The latch closed with a click. The employer and underling stood in silence.  
  
began Wrenchman. What exactly are you trying to do here? I-I don't see how taking over one fanfiction will stop the f-fanwriters from writing...  
  
Ruthander _tsk_ed and glanced at some of the gruesome things in bottles around the office. Wrenchman, you stupid, stupid man. This is only the beginning. Of course we cannot confront the writers directly. And they would never agree to see reason. We must fix this by ourselves; it's for their own good... even if they don't understand it. Go get some rest, Wrenchman. Tomorrow we pay a visit to a certain Academy...


	8. Link of the Web of the Spider

Something was not right. Fender woke up with beads of sweat over his forehead, and sat up with a start. He couldn't put his finger on it. The dormitory was silent, barring the occasional whimper of Buttons, who was suffering from some rather violent graffiti courtesy of LVJ, or the sound of a muffled squee from the girls' dorms on the other side of the Common room. He rubbed his face and stood up, glancing around the room for signs of a disturbance. Nothing. He tried to return to sleep, but the feelings of anxiety, panic, and fear persisted. Somewhere, perhaps somewhere not even remotely close to his current location, something dreadful was happening.  
  
What Fender was feeling was a textbook case of Literary Idiosyncratic Neural Konnection, also known as LINK (hence the spelling) by the folks of the PPC Department of Fictional Psychology. It was a kind of innate feeling that an author had concerning the well-being of their stories, or the atmosphere of their written domain. LINK sometimes manifested itself in MST-fiction, with the presence of Mysterious-All-Knowing-Author-Voices, or malevolently as poorly-typed author's notes in badfic. Fender tossed and turned in his sleep, trying to bury his head into his pillow. No such luck. LINK would not let him be. As an interesting side note, LINK was also the attributed to some of the phenomena that occurred around most Official Fanfiction Universities, such as Miss Cam's ability to exactly which students were brewing trouble for the staff, or Miss H's impeccable intuition. Miss Brin had been working on developing LINK as well, but after HFA's unexpected near-death experience had become a little touchy on the subject.  
  
By the time the bell rang two hours before Fender's first class, he was in a bad tempered, irritable mood. However, as this was largely the norm for the fanwriter, no one noticed the difference. He dressed inattentively and glowered on his way up to breakfast.   
  
Most of the school had settled into HFA after a month of getting used to the daily regimens. Narloth had even developed a taste for Tantaflaf, which her housemates could not understand in the least (Come on, guys, after you get used to it it just tastes sort of like stale Twizzlers...). Fender entered the Great Hall, ducking under the large pink sign that advertised the Fluff Enthusiast's Halloween Ball. Most of the Shippers at HFA were delighted with this notion, as they could vote for their favorite pairing when they purchased a ticket. The winning ship was then to be approached by Roxy and asked to attend as well. Fender secretly hoped that the Fellowship of the Peeves would manage to rig the contest as it was rumored, and force Roxy to solicit the Giant Squid's attendance. He chuckled darkly, then reminded himself that that wouldn't do at all, and returned to his normal scowl.  
  
Phayn was saving a seat for him at the Slashering table. It was hard for Fender to believe that they were actually becoming sort-of-friends, especially as he was less than welcoming concerning the whole thing. That and the fact that Phayn was as close to a fangirl as one could get. He sat down and dug into the porridge (laced with Tantaflaf marshmallows à la Lucky Charms), wincing as LINK gave another twinge.  
  
Hey, Mr. Sunshine, said Phayn, her usual morning greeting.  
  
Bugger off, said Fender by way of reply. What do we have today?  
  
Good news, there, said Phayn. Madam Rosmerta and Rita Skeeter had a little row and neither one of them is in any condition to teach Potterverse Fashions: How Not to Stick Out Like a Sore Thumb', so we're free this morning. From what Leo Haven tells me, Rosmerta's been turned into a munchkin, and Rita's got a nasty case of Unluck after someone slipped a Maklaw into her soup. She's calling off all of her bets as we speak.  
  
said Fender, trying to focus on his porridge enough to pick out the Tantaflaf marshmallows.   
  
You all right? asked Phayn.  
  
said Fender, standing up shakily. I'll... I'll be outside... He stumbled to his feet, nearly walking into Ciela Night and Dido (planning the next escapade of the infamous Lusters United) as he wasn't looking where he was going. He didn't feel dizzy, or nauseous, just a little... disoriented. He didn't see Phayn regard him curiously before pushing her meal aside and hurrying to catch up with him. He also didn't see the vision of beauty until it was too late.  
  
Fleur Delacour drifted serenely into the Great Hall, silvery hair rippling smoothly like rings on a pond. She was accompanied by Bill Weasley (and glared at by a rather resentful Stan Shunpike), and didn't notice Fender until he stopped directly in front of her.  
  
A rather unusual sensation took the place of Fender's Literary Idiosyncratic Neural Konnection. He felt... giddy, and he was suddenly aware that this was the only woman he would ever love, _ever_. The sudden desire to smite Bill Weasley came to Fender. But Fleur... lovely, lovely Fleur... He had to win her love, he had to!   
  
And so he did the first thing that came to mind.   
  
He punched Bill across the face.   
  
Almost.   
  
A burst of golden fire hit Fender in the stomach, and before he could register what was going on, he was being thrown high into the air, appendages flailing wildly. He landed with a heavy crack on the Wantingmor table, spilling pumpkin juice all over Uchiha Itachi and the basstard, who glared and snickered, respectively.  
  
What was zat about? Fleur asked Bill.  
  
Not sure, said Bill.  
  
Just as Fender's brain registered that he wasn't in fact dead, a horrible sensation spread over the fanwriter. Not just the red-hot embarrassment from being wiped across the floor by one of the cooler characters, but a sense of terror.  
  
Terror long associated with the arrival of the Mini-Aragogs of HFA.  
  
Weasly, Werasley, and Wealey had Fender in a ball of thread in no time at all, and Fender knew at once the anxious helplessness experienced by all students that fell under the wrath of the four-foot tall spiders. He shut his eyes, and soon blacked out as his cocoon was pulled down the steps of the Entrance Hall to the lawn...  
  
He woke up with a fresh burst of pain some time later. It was very dark, and the shadows of trees were barely visible under the thick canopy of branches. Though it was nearly noon, the forest was dark. Fender had a sudden realization that he had just missed something. Hold still, someone was saying. You've been hanging upside-down for two hours, just let me get you out of this webbing-stuff.  
  
Fender dazedly realized that Phayn was using a sharp sort of rock to cut open the Mini-Aragogs' cocoon, and flushed with anger. He was the Deep Master of Fanfiction after all, what right did she... He almost said something before his survival instinct said that he was lying in a forest full of vicious spiders and he should keep his big mouth shut. Fender's survival instinct sounded a lot like many students at the Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy.  
  
Can you walk? The Minis are at their MSTing Theatre for the time being, we should get out of here before they get back, said Phayn, pulling him up with more force than he would have expected from the fangirl.  
  
I can walk! hissed Fender indignantly, though his legs wobbled when he attempted to stand. What are you--  
  
No time, said Phayn, and she grabbed his wrist and ran awkwardly.  
  
Fender spent the twenty-minute stumble-jog expecting to hear the enraged rasping of the Mini-Aragogs (Fffffff -click- keekeeeeennnn!), but it didn't come. At last the two burst from the Forbidden Forest into the bright sunlight. Fender didn't have time to wonder how on earth Phayn had even found him, for at that moment LINK twinged painfully. Fender yelped.  
  
You okay? asked Phayn, holding her arms behind her head as she tried to bring her breathing back to normal. They were standing near the lake, very close to the Hogwarts gate, actually. Wind rippled over the grass, and the two students shivered. Neither were wearing their heavy HFA-issue cloaks.  
  
'M fine, growled Fender. Bloody hell, don't mood swings ever stop?! he burst vehemently.  
  
Mood swings, eh? asked Phayn. I thought it was just PMS.  
  
Fender gave her a look that would have withered mandrakes. Fine, thanks, now will you just--  
  
What's that? asked Phayn suddenly, cocking her head as if listening. Fender caught the end of his sentence and listened as well. Sounds like...  
  
said Fender.  
  
I was going to say sawing', but that works, too, said Phayn. Fender couldn't place it, but she looked more... in control... than he had ever seen her. Perhaps Phayn realized this as well, because she suddenly giggled. Let's go see!   
  
Fender hurried after her, clutching a stitch in his chest. He had never been cut out for physical activity, more by choice than ability, and HFA did seem to encourage the run from death all day, every day lifestyle. He limped after Phayn, and the two Slasherings soon found themselves in front of the great gate that separated Hogwarts from the Hogsmeade area.  
  
A pile of filings littered the ground, and there were fresh prints in the mud on the other side of the gate. Phayn was standing stock still before it, and as Fender caught up with her she took a step forward and touched one of the bars. It crackled slightly with magical energy, but Fender saw that this was moot compared to the sizable notch that had been made in the bar.  
  
This can't... Shouldn't magic gates be kind of, errr, impervious to normal tools? asked Phayn, stepping back. And who would...  
  
Well, this is new, said an amused voice darkly. Trying to escape by sawing away the doors? I'm surprised, I thought digging a tunnel was the most ridiculous way to attempt escape from HFA.  
  
Fender and Phayn pivoted slowly and came face to face with Miss Brin. The tall, dark-haired woman had an eyebrow raised, but her expression wavered momentarily when she saw the faces of the two students.  
  
Can't believe she's actually meeting the Deep Master of Fanfiction, preened Fender to himself.   
  
Miss Knarm-Doots. I believe this is your seventeenth offense this year? said Miss Brin reproachfully. Detainment for the two of you. Phayn, you may finish the job you had last week with Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle, I'm sure they'll be pleased to have the help. Mr...?  
  
sulked Fender, his ego-bubble breaking like china falling from a seventh floor window.   
  
Mr. Blackorn, you'll be helping Mr. Filch scrape hairballs off the ceiling of his office after... someone... cursed Mrs. Norris thusly. Fanwriters, running around ruining the school... growled Miss Brin to herself, touching the damaged door. There was a loud crack and she withdrew her fingers quickly, sucking on the spot where the magic had burned her.   
  
But we didn't do anything to it! protested Phayn. This is so not fair, so, so, so, so-- Fender tried to think of a good argument, but after hearing some of the stories in the Common room wasn't exactly sure if he should press his luck. Besides, Filch's office wasn't very public, and that would at least be better than having to scrub the Entrance Hall with all the other fanwriters around. Can I just say what happened? wailed Phayn.  
  
Do I look like I want to hear it? barked Miss Brin. Detainments will be served later tonight, now get back to class! But as the two Slasherings trudged back up to the building, Brin stayed behind to examine the door.


	9. The Order Investigates

Ally White received the call late one evening, grabbed her portkey, and within seconds found herself in Oedipus Inferno, the secret headquarters of the Order of the Sphinx. Mind you, Oedipus Inferno should not be confused with the Plagiarists' Inferno, down in the bowels of the castle, from whence issued the dreadful screams every other Tuesday. No, Oedipus Inferno was actually quite nice, with individual dormitories for each member of the Order and a real armory (complete with thermal detonators, battle-axes, tribbles, and stilton, much to Leo Haven's amusement). Ever since she had returned to HFA as captain of the Order, Oedipus Inferno had become Ally's second home.  
  
There was little time to contemplate that, though, as the second Ally arrived there was a small _pop_ from the fireplace, and Mad-Eye Moody's grizzled head appeared behind the grate. he growled, spotting Ally. You're needed down by the Hogsmeade gate.  
  
Hello, Professor Moody, yawned Ally. She thought vaguely of the conspiracy the Order had uncovered that involved Wingnut, Katie, and Sparky of the Fellowship of the Peeves, creamed corn, and an uncommonly large pair of bowling shoes.   
  
No, none of that, said Moody gruffly. Just hurry up and bring a couple of the Order, too. There was another _pop_ and Moody's head disappeared.   
  
Ally put on her heavy gold-trimmed cloak and glanced around the common area. Rhiannon, Newmoon! There's something going on at the gate, we're needed.  
  
It was late afternoon at HFA, and the sun hung golden just above the lake. This was the riskiest time for lust-objects to wander around the campus, as classes had just let out, and hormones were at their highest (as witnessed in the case of Matt the Unfortunate of Lusterbuff, who happened to lust after Ginny and Luna. As far as Ally knew, he was still hiding from the bat bogies).   
  
The former Canonlaw, Rhiannon, and Newmoon strode over the grassy sward toward the gate, each armed with wand, dagger, and garlic. Newmoon had the phoenix feather Fawkes had given her plaited into her hair, but apart from that the three members of the Order wore little ornamentation. Necklaces, earrings, and scarfs were health hazards when confronted with a kicking, clawing fangirl.  
  
Know what this is about? asked Rhiannon, looking carefully at the bushes lest they get ambushed by an overzealous Lusterbuff in the throws of hormones (or perhaps even by Catootje, who sought the Mirror of Erised with unblinking devotion, and had thus become a bit mental).  
  
Moody didn't say, Ally replied. Here we are.  
  
Hagrid, Moody, Griphook, and Miss Brin were waiting for them by the gate. Ally was surprised; there didn't appear to be a crowd of students that needed riot control. She wasn't that concerned, though. She would have known if there had been a Canonquake.   
  
Griphook was examining something on the metal bars. ...done by hand, but not without magic. One needs powerful magic to get through the wards around these doors.  
  
Sueishly powerful magic, I'd say, growled Moody. Call for some white bloodhounds, we should track them down and find the nest before they spread. This Canon has too many of those prissies, we'd do well to destroy a few more while we have the time.  
  
That's the PPC's job, not ours, said Miss Brin. Hello, Ally, Newmoon, Rhiannon. There's been a bit of.. trouble.  
  
One of th'student's gone an'tried ter escape HFA, supplied Hagrid. Tha's the closes' we've got ter.  
  
It couldn't be a student, said Moody. They haven't the power to break something as heavily warded as the Hogwarts gate. No, we've got a god-playing Sue on the loose, I'd wager, he said, taking a swig from his hip-flask. Probably thinks she's real clever, too, picking a fight with us.  
  
_I_ don't think it's either, said Griphook nasally, glowering at the two. The Sue would just manifest inside, and the students haven't tired themselves out hunting their lust-objects yet. That and the...  
  
Was there anyone around here when this was... discovered? asked Rhiannon, going over to touch the heavy notches that had been made in the iron. Miss Brin tried to say something, but there was a loud snap and Rhiannon pulled her hand back, smarting.  
  
There're charms on it, said Miss Brin, a little too late.   
  
Well, what other possibilities do we have here? asked Ally, handing Rhiannon her emergency supply of pain-killing salve (she had filched it from Madam Pomfrey, but would die before letting the woman catch her. Ally learned from the mistakes of Gwynhafra Gammet, who had stolen some mild remedies after Broderick Bode had caught her hanging about his quarters. The vengeance of Broderick Bode was a tin tractor compared to the seven-ton industrial-sized steamroller that was the vengeance of Madam Pomfrey). The students--  
  
Jus' what I was thinkin', said Hagrid, stamping his foot in a minor earthquake. Snape an' Karkaroff were talkin' about it some time ago. He disarmed his crossbow and leaned it against the wall. Mark, it was the Fender-boy tha' was prowlin' round here, an' he ain't too fond o'HFA. I could see im doin' somethin' like this.  
  
He's the one Voldeymort the Mini-Pokégog was yo-yoing from the Astronomy Tower yesterday? asked Newmoon.   
  
No, that was The Joiner. Fender's the depressed pseudo-goth, if I recall correctly, answered Rhiannon.  
  
Miss Brin nodded. So hard to keep track of the students this year. Crabbe and Goyle are still processing species requests, and they haven't even started on most of the luxury items yet. It's a good thing all of our returning second-year license-violators are already on file, or we would still be working.  
  
As I was _saying_, broke in Griphook, glaring at the others, it couldn't be a student or a Potterverse Mary-Sue. Neither would make such a mark on these gates. There's a trace of metal in the groove that I've never seen before... It's not native to the Potterverse, he prompted, seeing their blank stares.  
  
asked Ally.  
  
Possibly, but the only fandom that feuds famously with Potterverse is The Lord of the Rings', and we would have heard it that from Miss Cam if something had been up, rationalized Miss Brin.  
  
Griphook picked up a small flake of silvery metal and gave it to Ally. You'll have to find out what this is some other way, then, he said. Nodding to the canon characters and uncanon staff, he began to walk back toward the castle.   
  
Moody and Hagrid turned back to the gate, arguing about the nature of the vandalist. Ally turned over the shard in her hand, then pocketed it carefully. What could possibly want to get into HFA, or for that matter, get out? Actually, those were stupid questions, as many students wouldn't say to getting out of the school, and there were always Sues looking for lust-objects within the Academy. But somehow, that didn't fit. Something else had its sights on HFA, and Ally wasn't sure what it was. Still, it couldn't be as bad as last year's fiasco, could it?  
  
Some time later, the bell chimed for dinner, and Hagrid picked up his crossbow once again. Not much else we c'n do now, he said gruffly. Whistling sharply, the gamekeeper called Rubens and Rebeus the Mini-Aragogs. Watch this gate, an' don't let anyone start sawin' at it again, he directed.  
  
The party started up the sloping track to the castle, Ally bringing up the rear. She looked up as Miss Brin fell back beside her.   
  
I'd like to get an inter-continuum check done on that metal, said the HFA coordinator in a businesslike manner. Tonight, if possible.  
  
At the PPC Headquarters? asked Ally, pulling the shard out of her pocket. It glittered like the metal it was. Sure, if you really want to. I've... ah... never been there, though.  
  
Foo Powder, it's not a problem, said Miss Brin, waving the question off quickly. There's a box of it on the mantle in Oedipus Inferno, I believe. Could you be off tonight?  
  
This seemed strange to Ally. Whereas some bosses were at my command sorts, Miss Brin was more of an at your leisure. At least in regards to the uncanon staff. Not in the cases of the students. Especially if they attempted rituals to transport Cap'n Jack Sparrow magically into Potterverse, like a certain Slashering whose name began with a and rhymed with Rat Sparrow, or tried to get Harry and Draco together against their will like another Slashering whose name began with and rhymed with . They ended up in a situation that began with a and rhymed with .  
  
Of course, said Ally, quickening her pace. But are your sure this isn't kind of an overreaction? --If you don't mind me saying. I thought when Madison Black had an... erm... lycanthropic episode' in order to capture Sirius, we should have come down like so many bricks, but we let her off with just a couple weeks of detainment with Bellatrix and Narcissa. This, well, this doesn't seem quite as bad...  
  
Miss Brin frowned, remembering the incident. I... I suppose, she said. Consider it more of a... precaution. And she then she rubbed her temples as if she had a headache.


	10. Alternate Universes and You

Fender Blackorn had never been so miserable in all his born days. He had never known that cleaning involved so much _filth_. To say that Mrs. Norris had been cursed with a Hairballing Hex would be like saying that the Lusterbuffs were a little fond of Oliver Wood. Even at lunch two days after his ordeal in Filch's dungeon, he was still removing pasty cat hair from underneath his fingernails. Ergh.  
  
The Slashering slouched out of the Great Hall and started to climb up the main staircase, his bag biting into his shoulder as if it were stuffed with rocks (it was, actually. Lucius Malfoy, believing that the fanwriters had been getting off a little too easily, had charmed their textbooks to transfigure themselves into stone between classes. Which was most unfortunate if your name was Yarrow Spencer and you happened to drop your bag on your toes on a regular basis).  
  
Thus it was with plodding, grumbling endurance that Fender heaved himself into McGonagall's transfiguration classroom and sank into a seat beside Phayn (chatting with Jessica Redfordabout how Snape was much hotter when he was angry).  
  
Oh, and when he looks at you like he's about to rip out your heart and show it to you... said Phayn, including dramatic hand gestures.  
  
...You know he already holds it in the palm of his hand... finished Jessica Redford and Mandy-Pandy.  
  
The girls sighed wistfully.  
  
Fender fumed and slouched in his seat, used to the banter by now. Dragging his bag up onto his chair, he pulled out the now much-lighter copy of _Alternate Universes for Pansy-Ass Fanwriters_, by Mad-Eye Moody.  
  
Oh, you're back, said Phayn, tilting her head to examine him. I thought Filch had eaten you.  
  
Were Crabbe and Goyle happy to see you? shot Fender irritably.  
  
Phayn paused and bit her lip. No, I don't think so. They don't like when I squeal.  
  
Fender, who was by now used to Phayn's 1200 Hz voice, rolled his eyes. I wonder why.  
  
CONSTANT VIGILANCE!  
  
In the ringing silence that followed, Tamara and Sierra Desiree struggled to pry their fingers off of the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. This was a gut reaction to all of those who had attended Moody's special Let Dead Dogs Stay Really Dead Seminar in response to the bout of resurrected Sirius Black fanfictions (If he isn't the Messiah, he's not coming back!).  
  
Nice to know you've remembered me, growled Moody, limping into the classroom. This is a class for Alternate Universes. That's right, AUs. What you know about them, what you should know about them, and how you fight them--  
  
_Hem hem._  
  
Several fanwriters tensed. As a whole, the group turned to see Dolores Umbridge, a troupe of what looked like feral, technicolor kittens following in her wake, step lightly into the room. Second-years gripped their Ipiopius wands, completely forgetting that hexing a Canon would earn them a place in the Paintball Buffer ring for the upcoming match.  
  
What Professor Moody means, is that we're not going to fight all of these delightful stories. After all, not all of these stories are bad, we just need to give some of them a turn in the right direction, and after that... Why, I'm sure the fanwriters will understand in time, she said sweetly.  
  
M.E. launched herself at the woman in a fit of what she would later deem madness. In an instant, the kittens' disillusionment charm vanished, and six Mini-Aragogs had M.E. in their claws. The cry of Sleeper! Sleeper! didn't seem to bode well. Nor did M.E.'s protests of My muse will hear about this, just you wait!  
  
Now, why don't we start with a few little examples of these Alternate Universes, said Umbridge, clapping her hands lightly in a gesture that would have seemed gentle had she not been giving the Lord Elrond Glare of Death to the student population at large.  
  
growled Moody. Fender noted that he didn't seem to happy with Umbridge either. This was because the professor's wand was twitching and black sparks were flicking from its tip. Fender needed the Industrial Strength Clue-by-Four to take a hint.  
  
Our first teensy little example has much to do with siblings, said Umbridge sweetly.  
  
The classic What if Harry Potter had a twin sister who also went to Hogwarts and fell madly in love with Draco Malfoy?' cliche. Page forty-nine, fangirls, barked Moody. Jah'dell, Odo, and WfR, read the dialogue.  
  
A mass shuffling as newly-transfigured books were lugged from bags. Fender rolled his eyes at Phayn, who had begun to jitter in panic when she realized that she had forgotten her own, and slid the book over for her to see. Phayn brightened, and had already started doodling a picture of Snape in the margin before Fender was able to knock her hand away.  
  
Jah'dell cleared her throat and started to read in the dull monotone characteristic of textbook-readings everywhere. I am Harry Potter. I grew up with the Dursleys. Now I am at Hogwarts. Who is that? She looks like me.  
  
I am Harrieta Potter. I am your twin, Harry. I was put in an orphanage for safe-keeping, despite the fact that you were not. This means that I am the chosen one, not you. Did I mention that I will now take your position as Seeker, steal your friends, and have an angsty romance with your nemesis?  
  
Surprisingly, this does not bother me. Have some pudding.  
  
Stop here, said Moody. What does this look like to you? Come on, you've all had Madam Pomfrey's seminar, this should be cake.  
  
Indeed. Madam Pomfrey's Dissection of an Original Character was not something Fender was likely to forget.  
  
It looks like a Mary-Sue, said Raven the Nerd timidly.  
  
Of course, said Professor Umbridge, eliciting a twitch from Raven the Nerd. A sibling Sue. First lesson: AUs cannot be used as an excuse for bad original characters. Continue.  
  
I am Draco Malfoy, said Odo with a hint of disgust. I am a reformed, tender man. I have come to fall in love with you, because I do not recognize who you are, even though Harry thought you his twin four seconds after seeing you. Kiss me, random new girl with glasses and messy black hair.  
  
Point two, said Mad-Eye. Extreme Out-of-Character behavior. AUs cannot excuse this either, UNLESS THERE IS A MIGHTY GOOD REASON.  
  
Several of the Wantingmors fell from the ceiling with a thud.  
  
Characters must stay In-Character unless stipulated by the AU. This is the What if Harry had a twin sister' AU, not the What if Draco grew up a bleeding heart nancy' AU. If your characters change, we must know _why_ they've changed, or it'll be Buffer duty for the lot of you. Emisi Whitewing, Airmid Star, and Blue Jeans, pick up the next part.  
  
I am R-Remus Lupin, said Airmid Star, shivering as Mganaggal the Mini-Aragog lowered herself from the ceiling on a thin thread to dangle over the girl's textbook. I am back to teach because the author really likes me even through there are more useful things I could be doing and I will probably get lynched by the students' parents upon setting foot on campus.  
  
No using AUs to justify bringing characters back for the heck of it. Plausibility, fangirls! barked Moody.  
  
I am Sirius Black, said Blue Jeans, and a bunch of Black-lusters sighed. I am risen because the author wanted to rope in my fangirls by including me in this pointless AU.  
  
said Umbridge softly. Her who trolls for readers will find themselves attracting real trolls', thus says the HFA High Inquisitor. Please keep reading.  
  
I am Severus Snape. I am suddenly good...  
  
HFA High Inquisitor? mouthed Fender to Phayn. What's that all about?  
  
Phayn shrugged, then started to doodle hearts around Snape's name. Fender slapped her lightly on the arm.  
  
He hoped it was a fluke, or a slip. The last thing Fender needed was some High Inquisitor to make his life miserable as Umbridge had for Harry. It had to be a fluke. ...But then again, such a person would probably have the power to get the stupid fangirls in line... Yes! he thought giddily. An HFA High Inquisitor would do what needed doing at HFA, and of course _he, _Fender Blackorn, Deep Master of Fanfiction, needn't worry. He was an excellent author anyway, and this Inquisitor fellow would probably give him a medal and praise him for his work. Yes, thought Fender smugly, secure in a world of his own imagining. The more he thought about it, an HFA High Inquisitor was definitely a good idea.  
  
The Ironic Over-power started its engines.  
  
Now, we've gone through the basics of bad AUs, said Moody. Who knows some good ones?  
  
After a momentary hesitation, a couple hands went up. Moody pointed his wand at a girl near the front who had raised her hand, Kathleen M. Davis. A burp of fire issued from the professor's wand, singeing her hair.  
  
Improper wand safety, growled Moody, a small smile embedded in his craggy features. What did you want to say, Ms. Davis?  
  
Erm, AUs that are acceptable... Would stories written before the fifth book came out that are well-written and clever work? she said breathlessly, smoke coming off her crown.  
  
  
  
Kathleen M. Davis' face took on an expression of panic. Er, um... Oh! Plausible, they're plausible!  
  
No Harry turns into a monkey between fourth and fifth year and spends his days pelting bananas at Snape' pointlessness?  
  
Right, none of that! agreed Kathleen M. Davis, relief in her voice. She earned another craggy smile from Moody. Fender didn't know if it was worth it.  
  
Right. Save it for your humor fics, we're not dealing with slapstick here. What else is good?  
  
Fender became aware that Phayn was at it again, and elbowed her away from his textbook, leaving a nasty blotch over the heading of chapter twelve (Circumstances to Alter a Canon Character, and How Not to Muck Them Up Too Bad). Phayn jabbed him in the ribs, and Fender looked at her.  
  
he mouthed, scowling.  
  
Have you seen Snape lately? asked Phayn in a low squeal.  
  
Fender's eyes bulged. I am _not_ going to help you catch your lust-object! he hissed.  
  
said Phayn. No one's seen him lately! You're always skulking around being moody-depress-o boy, I thought _you'd_ at least notice!  
  
I am not moody! hissed Fender.  
  
Yes you are! said Phayn, her lower lip jutting out in the godmother of all pouts. But you see everything, I know, because you aren't looking for your lust-object all the time! And I know you have one, too; it's Fleur, isn't it? But I bet you know where Snape is, come on, tell me!  
  
Fender was indignant. Even if I did know I wouldn't--  
  
_Hem hem._  
  
Fender developed a tight, constricted feeling in his chest. Phayn toppled awkwardly from her chair. Involuntarily, the Slashering turned to stare into Dolores Umbridge's wide, squashed face.  
  
Talking in class and not paying attention? she said in a light, nasty voice. Oh dear, this won't do. I think... yes, we had better... Buffer duty for the both of you at this weekend's PALM game. I'm sure a bit of good exercise will be perfect to improve your focus.  
  
Fender could have murdered Phayn.


	11. The Rebirth of Paintball

The chill over the Quidditch Pitch caused Fender's breath the hang in the air before him. Because he was not going anywhere, he had amassed a small cloud of it. Not going anywhere. It didn't appeal very much to Fender. Especially when he knew that any minute now, five Mini-Aragogs would swing onto the field, packing cannons full of hardened Tantaflaf and ready to do battle in the PALM game. 

PALM. The Paintball All-fandom League for Minis. Fender had heard stories (or rather, overheard, as he considered himself above such trivial things as _holding pleasant conversations with people as one might with a friend_) and the stories had not boded well. WfR had said about the Mini-Aragogs' deadly accuracy with the Tantaflaf-Paintball blasters. Autumn Pico had remarked about their cunning and cruelty during the MAPLE games, concerning the sidelines (i.e. whichever unfortunate students Miss Brin had deemed fit to fasten to the field's rim as a Buffer). When Yrael had been asked to comment about the Mini-Aragog games, she had merely whimpered and dived beneath a sofa, refusing to come out until Lucius Malfoy walked by and threatened to send his own Minis in after her.

But this was not a Mini-Aragog Paintball League-Extreme game, Fender noted. This was a Paintball All-fandom League for Minis game. Perhaps it would be different. Perhaps being a Buffer at this sort of game would be nicer -a front row seat, in fact, to what would assuredly be a good show...

Above him, a little to his left, the Ironic Over-power shook his head with distaste and wondered if these fanwriters would ever learn. 

Fender, however, remained oblivious. There was obviously some higher purpose for his being on Buffer duty, he thought. Perhaps it was a test of some sort, a test to show his magnificence to the faculty and staff of HFA, who would then, assuredly, assign him a more lofty role at the school. It would all be a vehicle for his rise to fame and glory, of course. Of course, that was it, it wouldn't be anything else, now, would it?

It wouldn't have anything to do with the malignant inter-continuum portal opening up behind him, would it?

So glad you could make it, said the jubilant voice of Oliver Wood. Fender turned his head a bit to look over his shoulder, and saw the former Gryffindor Keeper bounce excitedly around what looked like a delegation of already-chewed chicken. 

The already-chewed chicken shifted, and loped forward on long arms. The foremost one sniffed, and yawned, revealing a mouth full of large, dripping teeth. Fender tried to remember where he had seen something like this before. It all was vaguely familiar, perhaps it had been in a movie...?

And we are especially glad that some of your Canons could make it, said the voice of Miss Brin. 

It will be a very good match, said Viktor Krum in his thick accent, casing out the creatures (and in turn being cased out himself. Their eyes followed him like a menacing Mona Lisa).

We look forward to it, said an old, slightly cracked voice. Any chance to improve the Mini-Rancors' inherent abilities should not be thrown away, correct?

Mini-Rancors! Fender jumped inadvertently, memories of _Star Wars: The Return of the Jedi_ flashing through his brain. And the older voice, he knew that, too! But what would Emperor Palpatine be doing at HFA? The PALM game returned to him, and he flinched. Of course, it now made sense. The Mini-Aragogs were going to be playing against Minis from other fandoms...! He paused to consider a match against the little monsters from the Star Wars continuum.

Why couldn't it have been something like Mini-Ewoks?

... And of course, Miss Brin was saying. I see your university takes the same approach to the matter as our own. Feel free to make yourself at home; you are our guests, after all.OOooo, this is going to be spooky, isn't it? whispered Phayn excitedly. She was holding onto his right hand, something that Fender would have been extremely disgusted by (she was a filthy Snape fangirl, for crying out loud!) had they not been bonded together by the magic of Madam Hooch. Still, he figured that it was at least better than Lexi, tied to his other arm for trying to strangle Colin Creevey. Her eyes had yet to return to normal from the camera flash.

Brin! Miss Brin!

A black-clad member of the Order of the Sphinx pounded across the path, gasping for breath as he ran toward Miss Brin, Oliver Wood, the Star Wars' fandom's evil overlord, and the hoard of Mini-Rancors. As he drew closer, Fender recognized him as Leo Haven, who had given him a kick once for sulking around the House Elves and putting Winky back onto Butterbeer by the sheer magnitude of his imparted depression.

What's on? said Miss Brin, moving aside so that Leo could lean on the Buffer (and on Fender's left arm, causing his muscles to pinch from the strain). 

Ally got back from the PPC a few minutes ago, said you wanted to know about that metal by the gates?This is the one not of our fandom? said Viktor Krum.

said the member of the Order of the Sphinx. It's not our fandom, all right. They've pinned it to somewhere in the graphic-novels area, but that means anywhere from comic books to manga, and that's a pretty large area.Any sufficiently advanced technology can determine a metal by its atomic structure, said the Emperor. The PPC has obviously been working medieval fandoms too long that it has lost this ability.No, no, you misunderstand, said Leo Haven. He then took a step backward, because telling an evil overlord -no matter the fandom- that they have done something wrong is usually followed by torture and creative death.

It's a fan-creation, then, said Miss Brin, choosing to ignore the building lightning around Palpatine's palms. They never bother to devise their creations based on chemistry. Still, I assume they're narrowing down their list of possibilities as we speak?Possibly before we've spoken, said Leo Haven. Time fluctuations, you know. 

The crowd is coming, said Viktor Krum, looking back at the party. The game starts in ten minutes, and we are not yet set up?Go to, said Miss Brin, sighing. I trust Lord Haven will be along shortly? Leo looked up at the mention of his cousin.

I have not foreseen it.

Fender's arm jerked as Leo moved away, and glowered over at Phayn. She was, against all possible rhyme or reason, trying to open a bag of popcorn with her teeth. 

Happy about ticking off Umbridge now? he said stonily.

She eserves it, said Phayn, the bag of popcorn falling to the ground the instant she opened her mouth. She probably encourages all that fanfic about her and Snapie-wapie... It makes me cry! How could anyone do that to someone as tortured and beautiful as my little Snape'ums? She nudged her ankle toward the popcorn, but gave up after it meant nearly twisting it.

You're really one to talk, you know, said Fender, trying to inject a bit more haughtiness into his voice. He had come to get the sneaking feeling that he was going soft, and didn't like it one bit.

Oh? And what could I say about _Fleur_? said Phayn, her eyes dancing with wickedness. I bet you've got a whole collection of love poems about _her_ in that _notebook_ you keep!I do not! stammered Fender, caught off guard. Just shut up, those damned spiders are coming out.

The stands above them had filled to capacity in the short time, packed with canon characters, screaming -yet not screaming too loudly- fanwriters, members of the Order of the Sphinx, and even a few people who looked like they might be Protectors of the Plot Continuum. Fender scowled, keeping his face down. This was highly embarrassing for the Deep Master of Fanfiction. His ego shrank three sizes that day. Unfortunately, that was inversely proportional to the change in the size of his surly disposition, thus causing no one to notice any difference.

Welcome to the first Paintball All-fandom League for Minis game of the season! said Lee Jordan's voice above the crowd's chattering. This is indeed a landmark event, as we welcome representatives from the Star Wars Fan Fiction Academies! Representing the good -and not so good, I saw that, Emperor- folks from SWFA, here are the Mini-Rancors! Palatine, Pastaline, Palpatiny, Imperor Palpitine, and Palpantine! Don't they look vicious!

Fender, much closer to the action, felt his fight-or-flight mechanism straining at its ties. The creatures that he had once thought to resemble chewed chunks of chicken looked as if they would like to do some chewing of their own. Probably on him. Their predatory eyes swept the pitch, and the cannons hooked to their bowed shoulders had an aerodynamic look to them. Fender wondered just how technologically advanced the Star Wars universe was, and if this technology extended to the production of paintball cannons.

Aaand from HFA! Our home team! Captain'd by last year's MAPLE champion, the Mini-Aragog Voldermort! We have Hermoine! Sirus! Weasly! Aaand Lucious!

Five large spiders dropped from the goal hoops to land right in front of Fender. Their fur, contrasting sharply with the green- and red-tinted hides of the Mini-Rancors, was deep purple laced with Wilver. The Wilver hurt to look at, and Fender tried to turn away. However, the full-body binds that had been lax before the game were now at full strength, and Fender found that he could not even move his eyes, let alone his head. 

Down the Buffer from him, Tessura Alrina, Kisa, and Raven Lennox were whimpering as the Mini-Aragogs tread on them purposefully, making a warm-up lap of the field. Azaelia Sapphire Took had already passed out.

Now, remember the rules, Minis. First one to a hundred points or most points scored before time runs out wins the game. As far as conduct, there _are_ no rules! Aaand, wait for the whistle...

Oliver Wood's piercing call rang through the chill October air. In the stands, Estella Tucker and Le BuzzinGnat swooned. 

It begins! announced Lee Jordan. There's Pastaline with a nasty choke on Lucious, but here comes Hermoine! Barreling down the field, that cannon's really working today! She's really using the cannon's kickback to her advantage, I'd say! Now, over near the far goal, it looks like Imperor Palpitine's going after our own Voldermort! But Voldermort doesn't look like he's going to stand for this! Oh, no, here comes the spinnerets! He's got Imperor Palpitine on a line now! Speed may win this game for HFA! Now, now, Emperor, no help from the sidelines.

The crackle of Force-fed lightning around Imperor Palpitine diminished, and the hooded figure of Emperor Palpatine projected a general wave of surliness over the crowd.

Down on the field, things were different. Pastaline had indeed had a choke on Lucious, but what Lee Jordan had neglected to mention was that the Mini-Rancor had been standing atop of Crystal in order to do it, or that Voldermort's first three threads had neglected to hit Imperor Palpitine, and had torn sizable chunks of hair out of the heads of Emily Nielsen, Fate Rilley, and Leevee of Team Socket. Fender grit his teeth as Palpatiny flew through the air, Sirus' Tantaflaf helping him backwards toward the Buffer. 

The SWFA crew will have to get its act together if it's going to win this one! said Lee Jordan. Score as of now... twenty-five to thirteen HFA! But we're not coming out of this one unscathed!

Fender tried to shrink back as Pastaline sank his teeth into Hermoine. The Mini-Aragog screamed, pincers clacking wildly as dark blood stained the field. Lucious, instinctively going to assist Voldermort, turned in his pursuit of Imperor Palpitine and shot a mess of web at Pastaline, blinding him and knocking him off Hermoine. Several chunks of dark, shaggy fur came off in his mouth, and Hermoine, ignoring the obvious pain, emptied both barrels of her cannon into the Mini-Rancor's stomach (or rather, stomach region).

Voldermort closed in on Imperor Palpitine. The Mini-Rancor was bogged down with a load of webbing, and Voldermort was on him, as if the Star Wars' Mini was a fly in his web. With a grunt of effort, Voldermort raised Imperor Palpitine onto his forelegs, and jetted him into the air. Before he reached the ground, eight gobs of Tantaflaf had pummeled the Mini-Rancor's body, knocking him further and further toward the Buffer, growing larger and larger in Fender's vision, blocking out the crowd, the sun, even Phayn's hysterical screeches as all that filled his vision was the huge, hulking mass of Imperor Palpitine...

He woke sometime the next day, in the Hospital Wing, being treated by a disgruntled Madam Pomfrey, who told him to try to avoid getting squashed beneath web-covered Mini-Rancors in the near future.


	12. The Fluff Ball and its Invasion

Sleep hardly came to Fender at all in the week following the brutal PALM game. Dreams of a crystal ball and pensieve, and of two men always watching and waiting, woke him instantly whenever he tried to settle down to bed. This irritated Fender, because sheer physical exhaustion coupled with a lack of sleep had begun to wear on his body, and he found himself slipping further and further into sullenness. Not that he minded the sullenness, of course. If sullenness ever got on the endangered species list, it would be because Fender had been poaching it.

In other news, the initial excitement of HFA winning its first PALM game against the Star Wars Fanfiction Academies had all but completely evaporated. At first, the Wantingmors had rejoiced at the cleverness of the Potterverse's Minis. Then S. C. Hardy pointed out that the PALM game merely confirmed said Minis' ruthlessness. And the whole of the fanwriter population despaired.

However, wherever there are hormones and lust-objects together in the same vicinity, hope is not long absent. The Fluff Enthusiasts' Halloween Ball was fast approaching, and Lusterbuff House was vibrating with excitement.

Maybe Harry will dance with me! said Erin Mirestone hopefully.

No, me! said Haley Plotkin.

I hope Peter Pettigrew picks me, said Sparky dreamily, causing Rosemary the Rubix Cube and Rhianna Dark to inch quietly away from her. A few days later, the Association of Marauders' Lusters fractured over whether or not to invite Sparky to join their ranks or take out a contract on her.

The Goblet of Fire, set up in the rear of the Great Hall, had even started to overflow its magical boundaries and spew the small cards on which a fanwriter might vote for his or her favorite pairing. In a landmark yet tentativeagreement with the faculty, the Fluff Enthusiasts had been able to draw up a contract with the canon characters that said that the winning pairing would have the first dance at the upcoming Ball. At the best of times, the Goblet was merely roasting the noncanonical pairings such as Oliver Wood/plumjam. At the worst of times, it was being fought over by Lusters United and the Slash Crusaders to see whether Harry Potter would be sharing his dance with Hermione or with Draco.

Those with the gall to write down any ship involving Mary Sue had been hunted down by DarkOne Shadowphyre and strung up in the dungeons to listen to Igor Karkaroff's one man show.

As Halloween drew closer and closer, Fender was very pleased to say that he was not at all looking forward to the juvenile, disgusting event that was the Fluff Enthusiasts' Ball. Though the school teemed with girls, there was only one who he considered worthy of him, though he would undergo several hours of thumbscrews before admitting that there _was_ even one. But he didn't think that Fleur would go to the Ball with him. Especially after he had beaten up Bill Weasley, her pansy boyfriend (Fender had a bit of selective memory when it came to things like public humiliation).

And then it was the night of the Ball, and Fender, sitting stubbornly in the Slytherin Commons with an absurdly obscure tome that he could not even understand, relished the sneer that he presented to the dressed-up Slasherings on their way up to the party. Silly, foolish girls, he thought. Do they really think their stupid fantasies will ever come true? 

Fender didn't bother to look up. Only one person in his House could manage to exclaim the clearing of her throat. What do you want, Phayn? Why aren't you up there drooling over Snape?It doesn't start for another hour, silly! said Phayn, plopping down in his armchair and managing to toss his book across the room at the same time. I'm not going to that stupid Ball, if that's what you mean, said Fender, scowling as he bent to retrieve the book. It was only when he straightened up that he caught sight of Phayn. Leave meIsn't there even aYou look nice, Phayn,' or even a You look better than normal, Phayn' for me? she said, jutting out her chin. 

It took Fender a moment to compose himself. How did she _do_ that? he wondered. A girl looks frumpy and wears excessive glittery eye make-up for two months, then suddenly shows up for a dance looking like a young model? How did she _do_ that? For indeed, Phayn's appearance was, in her own words, _much_ better than normal'.

What are youGoing to snare Snape? he said, snapping back into auto-cynicism.

I am, as a matter of fact, she said, her nose in the air. I only came to ask you to come because you're my friend, and I don't think you should be alone in the Commons while everyone else is having a good time upstairs.Define good time', said Fender, glowering.

Well, it doesn't involve _The Elucidated Secrets of the Middle Dynasty Species of Thatcher's Moths and their Impact on Modern Quantum Arithmancy_, said Phayn, glancing at Fender's choice of reading material.

I happen to likeNo, you don't! I _know_ you don't, because you hate Professor Vector for agreeing with Professor Trelawney about your future as read by bird entrails! It was true. Fender had not been able to eat chicken again for two weeks after Professor Trelawney cut one open at dinner and read its insides to him, thus validating her prediction that he would not consume the meat of any domestic born poultry of the species chicken' in the coming fortnightGo away, said Fender quietly. I'm not going to ask again.Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud, spoiled, faking, sissyAre you going somewhere with this? asked Fender, raising an eyebrow.

said Phayn, gritting her teeth. I'm going to be late if you keep this up, and I am _not_ going to miss my chance at Snape! She strode forward and grabbed Fender by the ear, pulling him from his chair and causing _The Elucidated Secrets of the Middle Dynasty Species of Thatcher's Moths and their Impact on Modern Quantum Arithmancy_ to fall to the floor once again.

Aaow! Let go, you stupid fangirl! What do you think you're doing? You're not taking me up there, I don't want to and you're such a

But Phayn would not be dissuaded. Shut up, Bumper, and maybe I'll let you have a dance.

It was a mockery of the word , unless one were speaking of the spiky kind that goes on the end of a mace. Members of the Order of the Sphinx patrolled the area armed with tasers, wands, and luster-repellent (said to drop even the most rabid of Draco fangirls at a distance of twenty feet). Some of the less... sought-after... canon characters were mingling happily, Argus Filch and Mr. Lestrange confident in the knowledge that someone would have to be criminally insane to glomp them. While this was always a possibility at HFA, even deranged fangirls have eyes, as well as the gut instinct that anyone married to Bellatrix Lestrange is entirely off limits.

Fender sulked in the corner, ignoring the House Elf prodding his shin and making incessant offerings of chilled Tantaflaf done up in the shape of cocktail sausages. Across the room from him, the ghost orchestra started to warm up their musical saws (figuratively speaking). Phayn seemed to have disappeared, as was her wont, and Fender wondered when it would be a good time to begin counting the seconds until Snape appeared, trying to shake her off. 

Sir would like Tanta-weenie? Winky is making them special for fanwriters, chirped the Elf. Fender kicked him aside, spilling the plate of sausages and pushing his way angrily through the mixed company (which was a lot more mixed than usual company, at any rate. Company that includes ghosts, animagi, magical beasts, and budgies water-skiing in the punch bowl is not only mixed, it's puréed). 

There was nothing interesting here, and no one was watching him brood. Fender felt cheated. He was leaving, and no one could stop him.

Except, of course, the Ironic Over-power.

Attention, attention! said a voice that practically shone. You could picture his teeth in that voice. Gilderoy Lockhart, unofficial liaison between the Fluff Enthusiasts, Lusters United, and the faculty, detached himself from the crowd right next to Fender. To the Slashering's immense disbelief, Lockhart handed him a ruby-red wine glass (with paper umbrella, orange slice and, because this was Potterverse, a newt on a stick. The glass, however, was not full of wine, but, because this was Gilderoy Lockhart, strawberry jello). The former Defense professor tossed his cloak over Fender's shoulder as if he were a hat rack or manservant. Possibly a little of both. The fangirls giggled, and Fender turned an angry shade of crimson to match the wine glass.

Yes, I know you're all excited to see which of your ships have come in, as they say, said Lockhart, giggling. Very disappointed, I was, too, to find that I barely ranked in the top five, but, well, we all know how hard it is to write a plausible me/anyone, these days. He grinned in an infuriating manner that made Fender want to hit him. He did not know that that precise emotion was the same feeling that most people felt around Fender all the time.

continued Lockhart, we did have a good number of requests, and, I am pleased to present, the most beloved ship of all, as requested by you of HFA, he clapped wildly, bobbing on the balls of his feet. Fender tried to remove Lockhart's cloak from his arm as if it might infect him.

May I present Lily and James Potter!Aww, that's nice, said Talifiney, restraining one of her fellow Slash Crusaders.

To think, they're really the favorite pair in Potterverse, sighed Neophyte of Ever-Shifting Dreams.

A little removed from the action, Harry Potter shrugged a bit uncomfortably. They were his parents, after all, and most of the time he had avoided seeing them in a romantic light.

In a far corner of the Hall, a group of Snape is Harry's Father mafiosos were speaking in low voices that did not bode well.

Nevertheless, Lily and James took the dance floor as the ghostly saws struck up a passable As Time Goes By. It was a nice scene, a picture of calm that rarely happened at HFA. McGonagall and the Order of the Sphinx Head, Ally White, seemed surprisingly at ease, through they both made sweeps of the crowd. 

Away from the spotlight, Sirius Black and a horde of Mini-Aragogs closed in on the Snape is Harry's Father bunch, and there was only a slight that accompanied the disbanding of the group. 

There was a lull in fanwriter activity. Genevieve Campbell momentarily gave up her explicit Sue tirade and settled into a subtle frenzy, the green glow around her head quivering slightly. The greenish haze served as a way for the staff to identify the metamorphmagus, lest she attempt to imitate a canon character and enter Aerobics Lair. Lavender DuBois-Black and Sam Malfoy, notorious lusters even by HFA's standards, seemed to have even put their hunts aside to watch the two dancers, lit by the glow of jack o'lanterns and candles.

Stop that thing! screamed Pineapple Queen.

Heads turned. The musical saws ceased their grating. Lily and James stopped their dance to stare at the member of the Order of the Sphinx.

Stop what? said Miss Brin, stepping forward from her lurking spot beneath a candelabra.

There was the pitter-patter of many, many little feet. Then something flat, box-like, and rectangular crashed into Fender, Gilderoy Lockhart, and two Death Eaters that had stood behind them. It didn't stop there, but rammed forward like a juggernaut, crashing through the refreshments table (and subsequently upsetting the budgies), then going for a group of petrified Canonlaws.

It's got the metal, stop that thing! yelled Jocelyn, coming up behind Pineapple Queen with the remains of a very heavy chemistry volume. 

From his position on the ground, Fender saw Ally White lunge forward in a very glomp-like maneuver and hang onto the box's lid. The box opened, and the latch came down on her left hand. She screamed, and Em ran forward, yanking the fiendish lid back before it could sever Ally's hand.

Don't touch it, said Miss Brin suddenly. Containment spells, quickly.

A hail of wandwork made Fender go dizzy, and when his vision cleared he saw that the wooden box with the multitude of little legs had been impounded in five different bubble-domes, a shield of thorns, and a ring-like chasm from whence issued the distinct odor of brimstone.

Inter-continuum portal, I'm guessing? said Miss Brin, approaching the chasm carefully, as if expecting Mary Sues to issue forth from it.

Something of the sort, I believe, said Jocelyn. Now, we just have to get the metal back from it. They were almost done deciphering it, down in Oedipus Inferno.It's an interesting choice of theft, though, said Miss Brin, pacing the rim. And, in whatever fanfiction they snagged _this_ Luggage from, it isn't easy to control...It is doubtless a random occurrence, said Fudge, stepping out of the huddled crowd and holding up his arms to block the captive Luggage from view. In lieu of events, I think this Ball shall be considered canceled

The roar of protest would have made Frankenstein's monster reconsider fighting mobs.

But before the fanwriter collective of HFA could stone Fudge, there was a gasp from Artema. Look! Look at that! InsideWith that!

A milk-colored cloud appeared inside the bubble-spell nearest the wooden box. The Luggage stamped its feet impatiently as the cloud grew bigger and bigger, until it filled the whole confined space. Shut them down, finite! yelled Pineapple Queen. It's escaping!

The plothole finished coalescing. The Luggage jumped through. And all evidence that someone had once sheared through HFA's guarded gates was lost.

Author's Note:

For those of you wondering, I tallied up the preferred ships of all fanwriters with processed applications, and here are the top ten ships at HFA.

1.) Lily/James  
2.) Ron/Hermione  
3.) Harry/Ginny  
4.) The Giant Squid/Anyone  
5.) Sirius/Remus  
6.) Draco/Ginny  
7.) Harry/Hermione  
8.) Draco/Harry  
9.) Dumbledore/McGonagall  
10.) Snape/Remus

Lily/James and Ron/Hermione were nearly tied, but L/J won out by a few points. I don't know whether this is because you all really like L/J and R/H, or because you are not offended by them because of Canon. 

I was rather surprised that Harry/Hermione didn't rank higher than it did (especially below the Giant Squid?). Interestingly enough, the majority of the people who favored H/Hr were in Slashering. Draw what conclusions you will.


	13. Pretzels, Sympathy, and Punctuation

The bandages should be coming off tomorrow, but Harry's definitely right. Healing bones is nasty. Ally absently scratched the wrappings confining her hand to a plaster mitten, shook her head, and poured more Butterbeer into her tea.

Seated across from her at the Whinging Scab, faculty pub of HFA, Miss Brin gave her a mild look of sympathy. How goes the trawling for Luggage? asked the coordinator.

Frankly? Horrible. Em and Molly Morgan have been at it all night with the Pensive -useful thing, that, even if it is an abomination to Canon', as Percy so puts it- but we still haven't got a fix on it. I don't even know if we will; it's a big multiverse, after all. 

Still, freak occurrence, right? I'd rather keep to chasing Lady Umbra and Cir out of the Malfoy torture dungeon or busting Austynne for Sirius-stalking, even running Peeves out of the Bad Spells closet before we all get toothpaste boils again.

Miss Brin flinched. The bout of Habta Mucka Wedger Fedger (a Fan-Created Spell gone out of control, as was their wont) that had hit the school a week previous had been particularly nasty. Petunia Dursley had been coughing up dustpans, Ron Weasley had sprouted a rash of butterfly tattoos all over his calves, and poor Hestia Jones even grew a pair of lumps on her head that glowed like disco balls. There had been inoculations, of course, even though getting the whole of Potterverse to take something that, as Neville Longbottom put it, might possibly contain raven spleens, or something, caused just about as much havoc as hacking up cleaning implements, painted shins, and mirrored lumps on the noggin.

OFUDisc should know, in any case, said Miss Brin at last. 

Why? A bad feeling about it? I thought you didn't get LINK, said Ally.

There was a raised eyebrow and a bit of annoyance from Miss Brin, but she waved it off and coordinator and Canon Guard paused to watch the Lord Voldemort co-op place the final piece on their house of cards. In accordance with Voldemort tradition, it was roughly the same design as the Riddle House and LVJ had even charmed a pretzel to slither in and out of it à la Nagini. 

Hey! What're you all doing? Ludo Bagman and Gilderoy Lockhart bounded up to the Dark Lord(s), promptly -in accordance with the laws of comic progression- knocking the house of cards to the ground. 

We'll see if this spell of yours works, now, won't we, said Tom Riddle disdainfully to his older self. Really, you are probably the most inept wizard I've ever met, Me Sr.

A couple tables down, Neville Longbottom succeeded in melting the Firewhiskey keg with a simple Lumos spell.

Yet in mere moments the fallen cards sprang to life, and reformed the Riddle House (of cards) on the Voldemorts' corner table. 

Not so shoddy now, young nip, said Lord Voldemort Sr., the adult, balding head of the trio.

Like you could have done it without LVJ's help, said Riddle, indicating the grotesque baby-like incarnation of Voldemort known as Lord Voldemort Jr., or LVJ for short. 

Plebeian ingrates, gurgled LVJ, shaking his rattle.

Oo, I do say! What a lovely shade of lilac! giggled Gilderoy. His voice, however, was not as loud and pitched higher than usual. The reason quickly became apparent.

Look, my dear boy! I do believe we've shrunk! said Ludo. 

Indeed they had. Lockhart and Bagman were both now inhabiting the miniature Riddle House.

Not so bad, eh? snickered Lord Voldemort Sr. (yes, snickered. Harry Potter had once commented that the trisecting of the Voldemort personality into its three incarnations at HFA had left Lord Voldemort Sr. with an excess of candor and cheerfulness. It had also made him, quite frankly, a whole lot scarier).

For an old fogy like you, maybe, said Tom Riddle.

You're not even strong enough to Stun me, said Lord Voldemort Sr. gleefully. Too little to fill my boots, eh, sonny?You mean, _my_ boots? Merlin, you're so _embarrassing_.

Meanwhile, the pretzel Nagini was having a merry old time chasing Gilderoy and Ludo throughout the Riddle House of cards.

Anyway, as I was saying, this'll probably blow over real quick, said Ally. That box thing that crunched me was tough, really, but it's not a horde of Mary-Sues or Evil Avatars, you know.Miss White, what have I told you about the Ironic Over-power? said Miss Brin.

I thought we had diplomatic immunity, said Ally.

Meaning that it's free to shoot us in the foot whenever it pleases without reprimand? In that sense, yes, said Miss Brin.

Testy, are we? said Ally, stirring the semi-spiked tea with her good hand.

Miss Brin sighed. It's that Thing. I don't like having it in the academy.You think something's going to happen to it? Why? said Ally. Miss Brin shot her a skeptical look. No, really, said Ally. Hurting that Thing would injure everybody a lot more than it would help. And anyway, it's pretty well hidden. That code of Hermione's, doubled with that crazy math thing the Buffyverse girl did? Getting to the Thing's going to take some hacking. said Miss Brin. Still what? said Minerva McGonagall, pulling up a chair at their table. 

She's in a tizz about the Thing, said Ally, jerking her thumb at the coordinator.

An understandable tizz, said Miss Brin. You know what it is. What it does.

Somewhere to their left, Bagman squealed as the pretzel Nagini caught up to him.

We cannot do anything about it now, said McGonagall reasonably, nodding to Professors Sprout, Hooch, and Flitwick to join them. It'll play out, and we'll be ready when the time comes. But I've some business I've been meaning to discuss, if you've a moment.Of course, said Ally, scooting her chair to make room for Madam Hooch.

You have told them, Minerva? asked Flitwick, passing drink orders to his Mini-Aragog, Flikwik. The small Mini sped off toward the bar, muttering Grape sodases, grape sodases under the clack of its pincers.

Not yet. There has been another notice from this Inquisitor person, said McGonagall. 

We haven't found them yet, then? I thought I asked your people to get a handle on that, said Miss Brin to Ally.

Ally smiled guiltily. Well, with the Luggage, and the intruder', and the metal, we've been really busy, plus Kitsune Moonstar and TRF-Chan tried to get into Aerobics Lair yesterday and we had to reset the accordion panels, then Kate Davis found the chocolate fountain behind the Owlery, and... Oh, all right, so I did forget, but I was going to do it eventually.Of course, said Flitwick, patting her hand. You've done a superb job already, I was just telling Hooch here how excellent those escape hatches in the broom closets were working before we came.

Hooch nodded. She seemed to be in quiet, bit character-mode that day, which was a change for one who suffered from multiple personality disorder as she did. The fandom perspective on the Quidditch coach was almost entirely based on her yellow eyes and had therefore run the gamut from raving psycho-fan to austere hawkish madam. That unbalance of personality and her lack of a first name had given Hooch a strange propensity to refer to herself as Royolana. Still, it was better than said Ally uncomfortably. Erm... what does the HFA High Inquisitor want now?

Flitwick glanced at McGonagall. I think they should see this for themselves.

Behind them, miniature drama was being played out inside the card-made mansion. Never expected that, said Riddle, a darkly amused note in his voice, as he peered between two crinkled card-curtains. Looks like sourdough, too, excellent taste.Why did you imbue our pretzel constrictor with basilisk powers? burbled LVJ.

Heh. I ask myself if we should dip them in chocolate? said Lord Voldemort Sr.

said Riddle and LVJ.

Before leaving the Whinging Scab, Ally caught sight of two pretzel statues on the table beside the Riddle House of cards, both no larger than chess pieces, and bearing a striking resemblance to Gilderoy Lockhart and Ludo Bagman. She also saw LVJ wave his wand to conjure a bone-motif fondue pot.

As they left the faculty wing via a strategically placed movable stairway, the party found themselves treated to the far-off echoes of the House Elf Choir singing , a guaranteed ear-bleeder, and the frantic scrapings of students, clawing at the walls as they begged to be released from Igor Karkaroff's one-man show. From the sound of Karkaroff's inflection, Ally figured that he had just finished Chapter One, I am Born.

At last McGonagall lead them to a large window on the third floor, which overlooked the greenhouses. There you have it.

Seated on each roof pane was a student, appearing absolutely miserable as Mini-Aragogs looked on, in the immediately recognizable En guarde position (though a few seemed to have snuck off to play Diamond Web Round in the corner). 

They've been up there all morning, and some of their hormones must be really acting up, said Professor Sprout. The mandrakes don't like it at all, think they'll come down and eat their seedlings. I tried asking the Mini-Aragogs why they were keeping them up there, but they've got orders, or some such nonsense. Won't budge even for bouillabaisse.Miss White, if you wouldn't mind? said Flitwick, tugging at her sleeve.

Ally moving back to let the tiny Charms wizard climb up onto the windowsill. Right. Erm, so whose Minis are we looking at? That looks like Werasley over there, and Griffindor, but I don't know the others on sight.Gryffydur, Gryfinndor, and Gryiffindor are over by the east wall, said Miss Brin. They're not Godric's, though, he only has Griffendor and Godirc for his entourage.Well, it could be anyone, then, said Ally. But really, the HFA High Inquisitor orders everyone to sit on the greenhouses' roofs all day? What kind of order is that?Oh, that's not all, said Hooch, the maniacal look in her eyes that pronounced the return of raving psycho-fan!Hooch gleaming brightly.

There was a pitter.

There was a patter.

There was an avalanche of punctuation. 

Commas poured from the sky, clunking to the ground beside exclamation points, interrobangs, and semi-colons. Dashes and periods, ampersands and pounds signs, all fell willy-nilly over the greenhouses, leaving nasty welts where they struck the fanwriters. Efforts were made to shield the head with solidified textbooks, but, big as they were, _Dances with Rubber Chickens with Pineapples Round their Necks and Amusingly Shaped Vegetables Stuck Up their Noses: An Introduction to Comedy_ did surprisingly little to shield Lusterbuffs, Slasherings, Canonlaws, and Wantingmors alike from the dreaded hail of stones.

A shaking melody rose up amidst the pounding. Somehow, the Mini-Aragogs had acquired barbeque forks and were making rounds through the group, hissing Starts singingses! over and over. Werasley, the self-appointed leader, was even harassing X-Smasher 3, growling Tap-dancingses, fanwriterss, let's sees you tap-dancingses!Singing in the Punctuation Rain, commented Miss Brin. And this is the group that tried petitioning the Headmistress for secrets of the Canon? Very nice, in a vigilante sort of way.Yes, it does seem appropriate, said McGonagall. Brightens my day, of course.Of course. said Professor Sprout. Heard the one where Umbridge walks into the bar with the werewolf and makes those demands of the barkeep?


	14. The Fanwriters' New Clothes

Stupid HFA, stupid suitcase-thingy, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! thought Fender, lugging his granite-hewn textbooks to Potterverse Fashion: When a Tankini Just Won't Do. Why was this all happening to _him_? He wrote _good_fic, unlike the mindless idiots frequenting the Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy. His stories were deep, meaningful, full of revelations and angst about the inner workings of his soul... Well, at least they were better than that evil little plotbunny that had been on the loose since start of term, Harry, Ron, and Hermione go to the beach. 

I'm so misunderstood, he thought, steeling his features stoically as he entered the chamber near the Wantingmor dormitory (the canon Gryffindor locale, as it was, except that the Fat Lady had been replaced with a portrait of Mirkola Black-Lupin-Black, famed for her short-lived hunger strike in protest of Sirius' death. She was also Famous Fangirl #53, for those collecting the cards). The room, magically expanded to accommodate the Slashering and Canonlaw group, was roughly the same shape as an amphitheater, the only major exception being the large catwalk that ran from one end to the other, with a couple of loops in between, and the heavy oaken wardrobe closets which covered the walls.

Upon entering, he was immediately spotted by Phayn, who started to wave her arms as if competing in a Junior Semaphore Enthusiast program. Grudgingly, yet without internal debate, he slouched over to where she was sandwiched between Raisin Berry Louis and Sarah, arguing over which was better, Marauder-era or Harry-era fictions.

The word in the halls is that Madam Rosmerta's teaching this one, said Rhiannon, the Canonlaw student, once greetings (or lack thereof) had been exchanged. Could go either way, if you ask me.I hope Sevvie's modeling, said Amazon J. He's _way_ too sexy, if y'know what I mean.

Phayn laughed, poking Fender when the miffed and misguided gothic rolled his eyes. I know who Fender wants to see on the catwalk... she said in a sing-song voice.

Will you shut up? said Fender with a snarl, rounding on her. 

A few of the girls laughed, and Phayn tuned him out, striking up a conversation one part lusting and two parts giggling. Fender thought it would never end when the curtains at the end of the catwalk parted and Rita Skeeter strutted out, fitted with outrageous turquoise and yellow traveling robes that edged on blello. 

Glad to see you could all make it, she said, adjusting a pair of horrible glasses upon her nose. Especially with such short notice.Yes, we're very glad you all found your way here, with those last-minute changes caused by some callous individual, said Madam Rosmerta. She was, indeed, a curvy woman, which earned her a few approving looks from the few male students (minus Fender, who liked to think himself above such things). 

Yes, what a shame, Lusterbuff House suddenly coming down with that horrible rash, said Skeeter with a dry laugh. I'm writing an article about it, especially that interesting bit where the boils spell Sirius/Remus is my OTP'. Though you did forget the other O, you know.It's not supposed to be said Jade Kirk indignantly. OTP -one true pair'- I thought everybody knew that! Stupid Lusterbuffs, don't even know the basics of That's all we needed to hear, take her away, Hedwit, Goodrich, said a wry voice from the corner. Dethryl of the Order of the Sphinx detached himself from the shadows, just in time for Jade Kirk to see her captor. Been tracking this for days, now, said Dethryl. All clear, go back to your teaching.

Jade Kirk's screams and protests of innocence were heard echoing down the corridor, along with the Mini-Aragogs' telltale hiss of Fffff -click- keekeeenBack to the subject at hand, said Madam Rosmerta, clasping her hands and pointedly ignoring the yells of It wasn't me! It wasn't me! NooOOO! Not the Tonks Love Triangle! Yaargh!For today's lesson, we're going to have a bit of a dress-up day. Note the wardrobes all around you? You will be given twenty minutes to select proper wizarding gear suitable for wear during the seven years that Harry spends at Hogwarts. Take your pick from the closets, change into it, and return to your seats. Gentlemen, as you have the lesser numbers, you'll be changing in the back room. Skeeter indicated a wardrobe panel in the back, which swung open to reveal a snow-covered pine forest. The sound of sleigh bells drifted through the amphitheater.

Continuum breach! Continuum breach! Neshomeh ran into the classroom with a giant pair of knitting needles, and started to -for lack of a better word- sew the wall together. Skeeter and Rosmerta paused, waiting until Neshomeh had swung the wardrobe door shut and reopened it to reveal a rather musty cloak room. Much better, said the Order of the Sphinx member, padding away.

said Rita, her patience tried. Go to it, young'ns.

Wading through the benches of giddy girls -Fender assumed this was rather like a shopping spree for them- the Slashering boy found his way to the partitioned room in the back. Des Metallium and The Joiner were there already, examining a James Dean jacket with amusement bordering on reverence.

Could be one of Sirius's coats, said The Joiner, setting it aside. Motorbike, y'know.

Further perusal of the closets revealed a wide selection of black leather, some grubby habits stained in several places, earmuffs, and vintage T-shirts advocating everything from Abercrombie to Puddlemere United. There were a couple sweaters similar to those sported by the Weasleys, and a fine array of robes that looked to have once been Gilderoy Lockhart's, judging from the amount of lilac trim. Fender opened one wardrobe to see a hat rack pop out at him, holding top hats, pointed wizard hats (one, glittery and rather lopsided, even had the word misspelled on it), caps with feathers long enough to tickle one's back, and even two lime-green bowlers, of the sort worn by Cornelius Fudge.

Des Metallium paused when he came to a rack full of boots, loafers, and pointed shoes with bells on the end. Think these are real dragonhide? he asked, pulling a scaly one pair and trying it on. It fit, which Fender decided probably had something to do with magic, and X-Smasher 3 came over to select his own shoes. Fender, recalling Bill Weasley's attire, selected a similar pair, and went about the process of finding suitable robes.

Ten minutes later, a bell chimed, and the male fanwriters were expelled (quite literally expelled, similar to phlegm from the lungs during a hacking cough) from their dressing room back into the amphitheater. Fender trooped over to Phayn, and mutual appraisal of apparel ensued.

Nice boots, Bumper, she said, smoothing her hair.

Very... pink, he grunted, sitting down.

Indeed, it was true. Phayn's get-up would have been appropriate at a teenybopper concert, with pink sparkly capri-pants, pink chucks with pompom laces, a purple sleeveless top with the words I heart my Sev-Sev in gold glitter, and a choker with a tooth of some kind in it. This at least Fender would have approved of, had the tooth not appeared to be a molar of some kind, probably from a large grazing mammal. In deference to the books, she also wore a cape with paisley print. This, too, was pink. 

A few of the other fanwriters, though, appeared to have done a better job at costuming themselves than Phayn. A number of girls, including Jessalae and Diana, had chosen to follow the movies' take on Hogwarts attire, sporting gray vests and skirts. Some had gone for the more drastic approach, with floor-length dresses and robes, along with elaborate witches' hats. Ciardra had even found one with a crown of thistles, and was being admired by a few other McGonagall fans. 

Rita Skeeter and Madam Rosmerta appeared once again, to be ignored by a student populace far too enraptured by their new clothing. 

I wonder, do they ever cease their inane conversation? said a deep, velvety voice. The Canonlaws and Slasherings turned to see Bellatrix Black leaning nonchalantly against the lecturer's podium, her dark eyes proud and disdainful. The Sirius Black is My Hero crowd hissed.

Nah. It's their nature. Chatty tramps. Argus Filch had come out to join her. More hissing.

The appearance of Bellatrix, though, had succeeded in quieting the crowd, and Rosmerta took the opportunity to begin speaking.

Sadly to say, I'm afraid a few of you have not come up to par. We four -she indicated herself, Rita Skeeter, Bellatrix Black, and Argus Filch- will be critiquing those at fault. Go on, Fodfather. Be the Fashion Police.

A lump at the edge of the catwalk that Fender hadn't noticed before began to move. The Fodfather stood up. It descended into the crowd, sniffing each of the students, choosing a few miscreants, and closing his mouth around their necks to fling them onto the stage area. 

The Fodfather, a rather unfortunate typo that had found its way to HFA, was about the size of a small cow, with the mentality of a herding dog, possibly in deference to Sirius Black, its originator as a misspelling of . Instead of fur, though, the Fodfather was covered in -for lack of a better word- fodder. It seemed to be going oriental this week, and had a coat of rice, with noodles forming a tail rather like a horse. With a head of pork and egg rolls for ears, it was a very bizarre sight, and had scared many a fangirl away from glomping Harry Potter, which was its day job when not assisting with classes. 

Fender was not in the least bit surprised when it stopped before Phayn and launched her onto the catwalk with Rohan and lauren saunders. It paused to sniff Fender's shoes, but passed him over in favor of Marie Leona, who had opted to wear her feathery boa underneath a traveler's cloak.

Once the Fodfather finished its rounds, the judging began.

said Bellatrix Black, taking one look at Theaphelia. You are to be dressing for the 1990s, not the 2000s.The sword isn't Godric Gryffindor's, so you're wrong. This is Potterverse, not some Anime samurai epic, growled Filch. Pyrite shrugged, and went back to her seat. She had only really wanted to keep the katana, anyway. Unfortunately, Dursly and Bonns the Mini-Aragogs were there to disarm her upon leaving the stage area, causing the Slashering to retreat for imminent revenge-plotting.

And then it was Phayn's turn.

Bellatrix, Rita, Rosmerta, and Filch paused their individual judging to watch the uncomfortable fangirl totter over to the bench.

Miss Knarm-Doots, hissed Black, anger flashing in her dark eyes.

This is the worst ensemble I've seen in my life, and we get a mad crowd down at the Three Broomsticks-What were you thinking, girlie? Snot even fit for a Sue to wear-Can't be this dumb as to think Sev-Sev' is canonical-Not even matching the paisley with stripes and--Color choice? _Color choice? _When _I_ went to Hogwarts, _I_ at least-

Phayn, blushing as to match her shirt, tripped down the stairs and quick-walked to the seat next to Fender as the four canons commented on Hilary Snapple Cap Armstrong's choice of witch hat with puff-ball on the tip that spouted random Shakespearean phrases. Phayn's eyes were downcast, and her mortification appeared to be so intense that she didn't even try to annoy Fender.

And he could have matched her for discomfort, too, especially when the fangirl -desperately trying to hold back tears- blew her nose on his robes.


	15. Flashback, Flashforward

Author's Notes: No, I haven't died. I am dreadfully sorry about how long it's taken me to get this out. Insert the usual excuses here. Nevertheless, this chapter is extra long, and kind of odd, even for HFA. This will be the first one to make reference to Book the Sixth, so all those who haven't read it yet should cover your eyes and hum loudly while clicking the back button. I apologize if this isn't as humorous as is par for HFA, but I really did need to tie some loose ends together before proceeding. In any case, I hope this is worth the wait.

* * *

It was a quiet morning at HFA. Ally White paced the eastern corridors, feeling rather ill at ease with the utter lack of bedlam, hormones, and Draco fangirls running about the place. Slumping over to the window, she gazed longingly out over the grounds, remembering her own days at the academy fondly. Then she recalled the bruises, injuries, and general nastiness, and smirked, knowing that in her current position she was less likely to be molested by Mini-Aragogs. Miss Brin had been right. The sadism had started to rub off on her.

A strange sound roused her from her thoughts. Clack-thump, clack-thump, clack-thump. Ally straightened, drawing her wand, and turned a corner, prepared to see a bunch of Lusterbuffs with a Lucius-attracting magnet of the sort which I Forget had been selling during off hours.

She had not expected to see a roughly-hewn domino, hinged at the middle with a fine sheen of glitter over its upper half, tottering down the passageway. Temporarily stunned, Ally watched the thing wobble past her, toward the forbidden corridor to Aerobics Lair.

Instructor mode kicked in. "You can't bring that in here!" she yelled, jumping after the strange wooden block that had now gotten caught in an overhanging arch. Ally tried to cast an Impediment spell, but the thing just continued to move, turning itself sideways to fit through the door. Feeling angry and frustrated, Ally pulled out a whistle from where it was tucked into her shirt on a string, and blew two short, silent blasts.

There ensued a scurrying of little arachnid feet, as well as an accompanying "What the HELL?" from Sirius Black in the depths of Aerobics Lair as he rolled out of bed, clapping his hands over his ears.

"Ah, Voldemord," said Ally, nodding to the leader of the herd of spiders now milling around her feet (and knees. These were Mini-Aragogs, after all). "You saw that walking sandwich board, didn't you? Take it down, uh, please?"

"Ssssure," hissed Voldemord, clacking pincers in a way reminiscent of his namesake's fruitless attempts to steeple his fingers. "Attempts", because Voldemort had been in the middle of a game of "Diamond Web Round" with the Minis at the time, and had been at the center of a mass of multi-color yarn. The Mini-Aragogs played the game as one might Cat's Cradle, except that –having more appendages– the Minis tended to elaborate. A Diamond Web Round that had been going since start of term had enveloped the entire south wing of the Charms corridor, into which, most unfortunately, the Dark Lord had accidentally walked.

In any case, it was with much fervor that Voldemord and his gaggle of cronies (among them Crabb and Milfoy) chased after the strange clack-thumping device, their little feet skittering across the stone floors and leaving a trail of decaying-rat odor in their wake. Ally sprinted after them, happy in the hunt. She nearly ran into Mafoy, though, when she rounded a corner and found that the Mini-Aragogs had captured their quarry, and were circling it like bizarre, arachnid wolves.

Ally hitched up her belt, pulling out a notebook and a D.A. galleon especially modified for use by the Order of the Sphinx. "What have we here?" she asked, trying to sound casual while her other, more fangirlish half squealed about how she had the coolest job in the world.

The strange wooden domino flexed its hinge, doubling its height as it raised the front of its sandwich board into the air. Ally's eyes widdened as the air seemed to shimmer about her. She had the irrepressable urge to stroke her chin, to smooth a beard that she didn't possess.

_CLAP._

Ally sat in her living room, a plate of pancakes on her lap and the television on in front of her. The Deus Ex Machina that doubled as her portkey to Hogwarts weighed heavily against her chest, and she thought idly about going into the office after she finished her perusal of the Saturday morning cartoon roster. She flipped through the channels, and eventually came to rest on a news channel. People were shouting at each other, as people are wont to do on news television, but then the story ended, and another began, this one about Harry Potter. Ally turned up the volume, smearing butter over her pancakes and dousing them with syrup.

"...and with the release of the fifth book, _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix,_ just two weeks ago, fans of J.K. Rowling's series about the boy wizard are eagerly awaiting the next installment, set to come out sometime within the next few years," said the lady on the news, as clips of chipper youngsters with new 800+ tomes played on the screen.

Something nagged in the back of Ally's mind. The fifth book... It had been out for longer than two weeks, hadn't it? No, no that wasn't right, it had just come out, she had just been at HFA, she had just received an awesomely amazing job, she was going back there this fall...

No, there's been so much fanfiction, so many stories... Sirius died, and the fangirls all want him to come alive again... Ally shook her head, spilling syrup all over her pyjamas as she tried to clear away a very powerful sense of deja vu. This was wrong, this was very wrong...

Ally looked to her left, and there, staring at her as only an eyeless being can, was the hinged domino. Its top was raised slightly, as if unsure about what to do now that it had her in its clutches. Ally jumped to her feet, her plate of pancakes squelching as they hit the carpet.

"Y-you!" she exclaimed, edging toward it. "What is this? What happened? _What are you?_"

The domino jumped back, and its top flew up. The world went hazy.

_CLAP._

Ally sat in the Common Room of Canonlaw House, her knees drawn up under her chin. Around her, fellow students were giggling and leafing through books and fanfiction manuscripts. Redfire was besider her, laughing at a joke about the Slasherings. Ally chuckled, and dug her spoon into a bowl of Tantaflaf at the center of the table. The familiar, horridly sweet-yet-surprisingly-Pepto-Bismally flavor flooded through her mouth, causing her to gag and dribble a bit from the corner of her mouth.

"Right, so then I asked Remus if he'd go out with me if I stopped them from 'shipping him with Sirius, but he just sicced Lupine on me, isn't that horrible?" said Catharine Dark Wolf. "I mean, it's not like I offered to make out with him like Stephanie Brown."

"They're so unreasonable here," said Onyx. "What's one hug between friends, I ask you?"

"It's 'cause the hugging turns into groping, then where are we?" blurted Ally before she could stop herself. She clutched at her head. No, that hadn't been what she meant... she had been about to say why she only had Harry's best intentions at heart when she tried to glomp him. It had been a brilliant arguement, too, lots of examples and logic and contrapositives and stuff. But instead... what had been wrong with her?

"One too many knocks on the head by the Mini-Aragogs, Ally?" asked Redfire, jostling her shoulder playfully.

"Something like that," muttered Ally, pressing her knuckles to her temples. "I really need to see Harry... I'll feel better then... tell him about the Lusterbuffs I caught tunnelling up under his room in Aerobics Lair and sent them to Snape for detainment..."

The other girls had started to inch away from her. "Woah, Ally, I knew you liked the boy, I didn't think you were going all vigilante on his other lusters," said Redfire.

"I didn't mean–"

"Look, if you're going to go all possessive on your lust-object, Ally, don't even think about coming to me when you need Gryffindor face paints," said Chelsea, a girl who adored Harry nearly as much as Ally did.

"I don't know! What's going on!" wailed Ally, jumping to her feet and stumbling away from the group. She limped down the familiar corridor to her room, and stubbed her toe on something hard. She looked up through a fringe of mousy brown hair still carrying the last vestiges of blonde at the tips.

The hinged domino stared up at her. "You!" she snarled, though most of her wondered why, as she had most certainly never seen the thing before in her life. It was not the confused part, however, which was in control, because the next thing Ally knew she had flung herself forward, grabbing onto the top block of the domino, gripping its sides with her hands.

The block panicked, hopping up and down on one foot after the other, trying to shake her off. It tried to clap itself together, but Ally's fingers were in the way. Ally bit her lip as her fingers were slammed repeatedly by the heavy board plus her own body weight. She held on gamely as her skin ripped and knuckles bled. A part of her –the part that still lusted after Harry Potter and spent its evenings gallivanting about with Lusters United– wailed at her to stop, to let go. But the other part, the stronger part, held on.

"What _are_ you?" demanded Ally through gritted teeth. "Why –am I –back –here?" she said as the domino bucked and further damaged her knuckles.

The world hazed, but this time the hinged board creature could not clap, and Ally felt a rush of air around her body, the opposite of apparition, a free-floating experience. Echoes of conversations and memories flowed over her.

_And Snap looked out the window, wondering about how horrible his life and stuff had been forever, because no one liked him and hated him for being greasy even though it was a jean problem and he couldn't do anything about it anyway._

He thought back of all the horrible stuff that had happened to him when he was really little, like his mother being nasty and his father hating him so much cause he didn't have enough smarts as he was supposed to have. Snape sighed and watched the snow falling like the fragmanted peaces of his soul and all the horrible misery that tormented him all the time, forever.

Ally felt the pressure against her knuckles release, and the board to which she had affixed herself faded away from her touch. She was standing in a dingy office that seemed to be cast only in deep shades of purple. Ally, who was no stranger to the fanficto-realities, wrinkled her nose at the old lady-perfume scent that so often accompanied purple prose. She looked around warily, ready to find the hinged domino and continue her struggle, but it seemed to have vanished.

_Oh, he was such a pathetic creature of the night's darkness, full of the sorrows of night, contained in his own prison in a wall of blackest crystal. No one could touch him, no one could save him, no one loved him, and he didn't need them ever at all._

FLASHBACK

Ally spun around as a resounding CLAP echoed through the thick air. The world became hazier, and she felt the terrain change under her feet, becoming the soft, purply carpet of a hospital room, where a young Snape was saying goodbye to his dying mother. Ally rolled her eyes at the sight of the "moleasses tears" rolling down the boy's face, and at once she understood.

"This is your home, isn't it?" she called tentatively, scanning the shadows for the domino. "This is where you live, right?"

Clack-thump. Clack-thump.

Ally didn't dare turn around, but she could tell the hinged creature had appeared behind her, and was watching her every move.

"You're a flashback, aren't you? You take the story back to things that have happened already, don't you?" she said, taking a wild stab at the strange being's identity.

Clack-thump. Clack-thump.

Ally took that as an affirmative. "Can you take me back?"

Clack-thu–

"Awful potion, really, if they want the wart of a Mary-Sue, they should specify which kind, I've had enough guesswork on these potions to last me another four months," said a rough, masculine voice. Ally whirled around just in time to see a large, square-jawed man burst through the hospital door in his shirtsleeves and a five o'clock shadow that appeared to be on fall daylight savings time. A bow-backed college student followed wearily after, carrying a heavy sack.

The square-jawed man looked around, appearing startled to find himself in a hospital room with a grieving young Snape. The assistant peered up at Ally, and puzzlement gave way to horror.

The man roared, and Ally turned and ran, not bothering to question or assess the situation. Every nerve in her body screamed that this was a dangerous man, and if she could feel the story bending around him as she stumbled forward, knocking into a trolley full of antiseptics and cotton. "After her, Wrenchman!" howled the man, "There is too much at stake for this to blow!"

Ally skidded as the hallway down which she had been running converged into a dead end. She was trapped. She could hear the patter of tired, quick steps, as well as the fast yet heavy gait of the square-jawed man.

Then her body came into contact with something that was not a medical trolley, or a wall, or an angry antagonist. It was heavy. It was wooden. It was hinged at the top.

_CLAP._

Time rushed forward. Memories –or premonitions, perhaps, for Ally could never be sure if the rememberances she garnered that day had ever actually happened, or just been fitted into her mind by the errant Flashback– flooded past her. It was a strange feeling, as if she had just been squeezed through an hourglass. Then she landed, feet slamming down forcefully on the hard stone of the entrance hall.

And it was autumn, the castle full of vigor as students milled around. Two girls were argueing about Remus' true love, either Sirius or Tonks. A few Wantigmors lit candles at a small shrine to Dumbledore, while the headmaster himself conversed with a man with a large mustache and fine smoking jacket.

Still getting over _Half-Blood Prince_, thought Ally. And she remembered reading it. She remembered the watchful vigil throughout the castle as the Order of the Sphinx and fifty reserve agents of the PPC guarded against a repeat 'Sue invasion of the sort which had happened after the release of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_.

"Ally, there you are," said Miss Brin, looking as harried as ever, just as Ally remembered her from the morning she had first met the Flashback. "Did you find out where Leila Wynder has been keeping that Canon-corrector ray gun? Lord Voldemorts Collectively have had words about it being used in their vicinity."

Ally puzzled this, because it was as if nothing had happened, though everything had changed. For the staff had been working on the same problem of Leila Wynder that day that she had left. Yet now there were new characters about, and she herself seemed older... though of course she could remember her own birthday just a month ago...

"Ally? Have the fanwriters gotten you?" asked Miss Brin, gray eyes looking down into her own as if searching for mind-control influences in Ally's face.

"No, no," said Ally, shaking her head to clear the bizarre feeling of suddenly having more memories than one remembered starting with. And this time she hadn't even been joining up with her concurrant self in the Real World.

"Good, then," said Miss Brin, giving her one last critical look. "I'd like your opinion on something, or someone, I suppose."

"Someone?"

"It's Snape. You know he's been a little... funny... since Book the Sixth, but he's gone... strange. ...OOC strange."

Just then, Snape himself walked into the entrance hall to a chorus of boos and conflicted squeals from Sevvie's Angels, who had been thrown into a state of turmoil for his assumed evilness. Ally frowned and shook her head as the professor walked past her toward the staircase with his apron on. Surprisingly, no one tried to glomp him, though Ally personally thought that anyone trying to glomp a man with such a wide, crazy rictus would have to be mad themselves. Still, there's always one, and thus it was against better judgement that Aurora Berry launched herself toward the former Potions master.

_"Wrenchman, you idiot, don't let him get tripped up! We don't want anything to happen to him before he gets there," growled a man's heavy, commanding voice._

"Right," said another voice, this one beaten and broken. 

Ally looked around for the source of the voices just as Snape turned and deftly threw Aurora Berry over his hip, such that her momentum transferred directly from glomp to thump as she hit the ground and skidded several feet across the stone floor.

"Did you know he could do that?" asked Ally, as Snape continued on his path, the manic grin not leaving his face.

Miss Brin shook her head, pulling off her glasses and hurriedly polishing them on her shirt before replacing them and peering confusedly after Snape. "Follow him, why don't you?" she said. "And let's get all his fangirls quarantined for now, and an updated psychoanalysis from Lily on all the major Canons to see if anyone else has been having similar... ninja dreams, I suppose."

Ally nodded, and felt herself settle into the familar duties of HFA. It was as if nothing unusual had happened at all that morning. Well... particularly unusual. Canon characters going funny, amorous students, strange goings-on... All perfectly normal for HFA. She had probably just imagined all that stuff about the Flashback, really, as if something like that was really running around HFA. No, life had been normal, perfectly normal. Right-O. A-okay.

"Oh, and Ally?" said Miss Brin, turning back to the head of the Order of the Sphinx. "I don't know what you've been doing all morning, but please do try to see Madam Pomfrey about your knuckles; they look pretty banged up. And you've got Tantaflaf on your chin."


	16. Duplication Complications

Fender awoke to the sound of bells. Well... not quite bells. In reality, it was as if two gongs had been pressed to both sides of his head, and his whole body then used as a clapper in a giant steel drum. But from the ringing in his ears, and the tang of metal on his tongue, and the horrible pressure waves that resounded weirdly in his stomach, the only thought in Fender's mind was that of bells, especially of the one he wanted to ring to get some room service in his dormitory in the Slashering dungeon.

He rolled out of bed, brushing fine, dark hair out of his eyes as he slunk toward the bathroom to be thoroughly sick. He had been dreaming about his old fanfiction again, _The Black Glass Wall_. In his dream, he watched as Snape... his Snape... lamented his torturous soul and how misunderstood he was because he had never gotten the deluxe potions set he had wanted for his birthday. He had been particularly proud of that idea; he had based it off his own experiences at a family reunion.

Coming out of the lavatory, Fender looked at the giant clock on the mantelpiece (it read "Any time's a good time for reevaluating misunderstood characters!" across its face, a present from Peter Pettigrew and the Dursleys in hopes of cultivating a few sympathizers among the fanwriters). It was three in the morning. Turning to go back to bed, he paused when he heard a voice echoing down the corridor adjoining the common area to the outer dungeons.

"...can't do this anymore," said the girl. "I miss everybody so much! And the people around here are crazy! You have to watch everything you say, and put one toe slightly out of line... like, thinking something 'unapproved' about the films, and they jump all over you! Were it not for... certain people... I'd toss this any day!"

Fender's eyes widened in the dark. It was Phayn. He stepped into an alcove housing a statue of the Slashering newt, and listened carefully. This was not the Phayn he knew, always (annoyingly) eager to gush over HFA. He wondered offhandedly what had caused her to change so drastically. _Probably found out that her lusting is trivial in the grim drama of our lives,_ he thought.

Phayn entered the Common Room, apparently alone. Fender furrowed his brow slightly, looking around for the person she had been talking to, but there was no one in sight. He would have thought her alone but for a slightly male murmur on the edge of his hearing. Phayn lifted something flat and angular to her face, kissed it, slipped it into her bag, and flopped bonelessly onto a tall-backed chair.

It was then that Fender realized that what he was doing could be considered eavesdropping, and that eavesdropping was quite obviously much above the Deep Master of Fanfiction, and turned around silently to creep back to bed. He was halfway down the corridor when a voice stopped him.

"Hey-a, Fender! You're up late!" said Phayn with her usual exuberance. Fender jumped nearly a foot in the air and spun around to find himself nose-to-nose with the girl, who was apparently a lot quicker (and quieter) when she wanted to.

"Gngh- Phayn," he said, leaning quickly away from her.

"Nice to see you, too, Bumper," said Phayn, a trace of tiredness lacing her voice. "Whatcha doing up?"

"Going back to sleep," growled Fender. "What are _you_ doing? Hunting down Snape?"

"Snape? Oh, I am _so_ over him," squealed Phayn. "He's _evil_, Fender, he killed Dumbledore! And I _trusted him_!" she wailed.

Fender looked on bemusedly. He himself was sure that Snape had an ulterior motive... and he knew about these things, too, being the Deep Master of Fanfiction. Still, whatever else he may be, he was not foolhardy enough to argue with a fangirl scorned. "So I guess that's the end of the you/Snape ship?"

Phayn wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Sorta. If he's better in the seventh book I might go back, but, well... can you keep a secret? Oh, of course you can, right, you haven't any friends to tell it to: I'm in love..."

"That's not- okay, so maybe- what?" sputtered Fender.

"I never knew it, but after Half-Blood Prince, he's just so sweet and adorable and not _evil_ like _some_ people, and he cares about me, I know it!" said Phayn.

"What are you-"

"I'm in love with Remus Lupin!" said Phayn.

There is something of fiction that slips into even the most ordered of fanficto-realities. Thus it was with ease that Fender performed a perfect facepalm.

"What is it?" asked Phayn. "Don't you like my new soulmate?"

"Phayn... it's just... haven't you ever tried _not_ lusting after somebody?"

"Oh, loads of times," said Phayn airily. "It's called shopping."

Facepalm the second.

"You really shouldn't do that, Fender, you'll leave a mark," said Phayn. "Fender? Are you okay? You look kinda... kinda green..."

Fender staggered, then sagged against the wall, throwing his arm around the Slashering newt's scrawny neck. A splitting headache was pulsing at his temples, and in his mind's eye he could see a ravaged laboratory full of broken potions' equipment. Phayn kept him from falling over, then helped him sit down on the cold stone floor.

"Fender? What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing, nothing," he gasped.

Phayn smacked him upside the head.

"What was that for?" he exclaimed angrily.

"Don't lie; tell me what's wrong," repeated Phayn.

"There's nothing -ow!"

"What's wrong?" asked Phayn, and there was an anxious edge to her voice. "Malathyne didn't try to feed you a 'lighten-up' potion again, did she?"

"Do I look iridescent?" said Fender, rolling his eyes.

"Well, if you'd just tell me what's-"

Fender ducked as she lifted her hand to smack him again. "Look, all right, I'll tell you, just stop hitting me... Jeez, you're worse than Lord Voldemort Sr... If you must know, I've been getting these headaches, and dreaming about-"

_Crunch. _"What was that?" said Phayn, looking up sharply. The sound echoed through the common area once more.

"Probably Fire Sidoni coming back from a late-night Lupin-boxer raid," said Fender, still rubbing his skull. "Now _I_ am going back to be–"

But Phayn had grabbed him under the arm and hoisted him up, and was steadily stalking toward the exit of the Slashering dorm.

"Look, if you really want to run into Fire Sidoni after one of Lupin's given her one of those pterodactyl-head curses, fine with me, but I'm not–"

"Shut up, Fender," hissed Phayn, and before Fender knew it the two of them were out in the dungeon corridor, moving toward the sound.

"What are you, Nancy Drew?" said Fender, prompting a confused look from Phayn. Further irritated banter was prevented, though, when another sound rent the corridor, this one quite obviously that of a person falling over in long robes.

Suddenly they turned a corner, and Fender and Phayn found themselves face-to-face with Snape, who burst into tears and looked down at the collapsed figure of... Snape.

"What on earth..." gasped Phayn.

"I didn't mean to?" offered the now-whimpering Snape. He blew his nose in a long flower-print apron that had been tied unceremoniously around his neck. "I just need to find it... then everything will be all right... you'll help me find it, won't you...?"

Phayn blinked, a look of disgust on her face. "So over him."

"Of course you're over _him_," said Fender, walking deliberately around the Snapes. "He's miles and miles out of character."

Phayn sighed. "Oh, right... My Snapie...who I don't love, of course. Nope. I'm on Remus, now."

"Remus 6.0?" said Fender snidely. "Tonks may have something to say about that, you know."

"Huh? Oh, never mind... what are we going to do about _him_?" said Phayn, pointing to the gibbering Snape. "Or _him_, for that matter," she said, indicating the second Potions master, still sprawled on the ground.

"Nothing, of course," said Fender, turning his back to return to the dorm. "You think I'm going to wait here for that satanic Order of the Sphinx to come and cart me away to that inferno of theirs? Are you out of your mind? Wait, don't answer that. I'm leaving, that's all."

"But you can't!" protested Phayn. "You must help me get him back to normal! You don't want the Order to think _we_ did something to him-them-err ...the Snapes."

"After all he's done to us, you still want– look, maybe I should have asked you when we first met, but are you or are you not _totally insane_?"

"I'm not," said Phayn, pouting. "And you're being awfully cruel, not to want to take them back to the canons. What if his lusters find out? The Sevvie's Angels could be along at any minute, or, or _Sevvies' Angels_," said Phayn, correcting her punctuation with ease. HFA had started to rub off on her grammar, even if it had done little for her goals concerning men.

"I think the question is not, when are the Sevvies' Angels coming, but _why are there two Snapes?_!"

"_Watch where you're sticking those interrobangs!_" hissed Phayn as a punctuation question mark-exclamation point thumped her on the head.

"Oh, would that I knew that, too..." said the conscious Snape dreamily. "...But I must find it... you know, I'm lost without it... even after I had to, had to, had to kill my own dear father figure... _sob_... have you seen it, dear children...? Will you show it... to me...?" said Snape, in a voice not unlike that of–

"Sibyll Trelawney Complex muchly?" said Phayn, picking up the other, unconscious Snape and throwing one of his arms across her shoulder. She squeed, but it wasn't as strong as it once would have been, more of a residual demi-squee. "You grab Sappy, there, and we'll see if there's anyone who can help them."

"You mean you're not going to steal their underpants and enshrine them for all his lusters to see?" said Fender skeptically, hauling Sappy!Snape forward by the hem of his robes.

"Remus!" reminded Phayn, struggling under the weight of the lanky Potions master.

Fender shook his head in a surly manner (though this was quite the norm for the fanboy). "Let's just leave these two outside Oedipus Inferno, then, let the Order of the Sphinx sort them out. I have a high enough profile cleaning up your mistakes half the time, I'm not getting into any more trouble with that group."

"Oh, goody, goody!" cried Sappy!Snape weakly. "Are you taking me to see it? Only they said I must see it, and return it to them, so you see, I have to–"

"What are you talking about?" demanded Fender, as Phayn passed the ticklish pear and the two students plus Snapes entered the cobwebby halls that led up to the staff section and Oedipus Inferno. "What is this thing that you so need to see?"

"Oh, not only _see_," said the sappy one, a glassy look in his eyes. "I must... must... retrieve..."

"Retrieve what?" said Phayn.

"_...Muse Stone..._" breathed Snape, his out of character meter going through the roof. He then fainted, and cemented his place in the red.

"Ugh," said Fender distastefully, stepping away from the swooning canon character. "Is he even _in_ this fandom? Let's just leave him here, we'll get into more trouble than it's worth to show up with him in the middle of a fit."

"But no!" said Phayn, her eyes widening in horror. "What if the Dumbledore Avengers come!"

"The who now?"

"You know, the Sevvie's Angels that left the group after you-know-who did you-know-what!" said Phayn, shifting her own Snape so that his elbow wasn't digging into her shoulder.

"Like you?" said Fender, rolling his eyes. If one could harness the power of that single motion of Fender's, one would be able to run two small refrigerators and a toaster oven for three days. To put this into perspective, the power gleaned from Fender's eyerolls would have matched .12 of the Grave-Roller's output, a mechanism created to harness the power of deceased authors rotating in their graves. The Order of the Sphinx had a prototype model using the corpse of the smalltime Victorian novelist Simon Hershfeld, and had taken it upon themselves to write modest pieces of badfic concerning his characters through which to measure the amount of squick needed to produce a certain torque (The line "And Lucinda sad too Batholomomu tha t he was chiken an sh loved Jak Spaworrow mor than him an his violets OMG" had given them 390 joules alone).

"The Dumbledore Avengers will have his head, Fender! They're not all as sane as I am! We've got to get him to safety!" squeaked Phayn indignantly. "You're so, so, so heartless sometimes!" she said, bending down to prod at the whimpering Sappy!Snape and nearly loosing her grip on the other Snape as well. She looked up at Fender, her eyes welling with frustration.

Fender continued to move away. Phayn was interesting every so often when he needed to take some anger out on fangirls in general, but the whole idea of taking her seriously was completely unknown to him. He rolled his eyes (12 joules) and looked pointedly at his watch.

Phayn lost it. "Why can't you for once just try to be a decent human being!" she yelled, letting Sappy!Snape fall back to the floor and casting off the other Snape to land in a pile with his copy. "Get over here and show some backbone!" she yelled, face flushing. "He –they need help!"

"I'm the Deep Master of Fanfiction," explained Fender, a little perplexed by her sudden outburst. "I'm not some love-and-bunnies sentimental idiot... this'll go badly for me if we're caught!"

"You don't even _care_ about the canon characters!" shot back Phayn. "It's just about you, you, you, what a sad little worldly boy! Poor Fender! Other people have problems, too, you bastard!"

"And they can sort them out themselves!" said Fender, getting defensive. "I don't need this, I'm going back to bed, and when they string you up by your ankles over a pit of Mini-Aragogs, well you can just remember that I told you so!"

"Told me so?" shrieked Phayn. "Told me so-o-o-ooo–"

The panicked expression on Phayn's face caused Fender to whip around, where, just as he had predicted, stood trouble for the fanwriters should they be caught up late. Three bits of trouble, actually, for Lord Voldemorts Collectively currently came in three sizes: Lord "I'm so secure in my evilness that I can ponce around in my Strawberry Shortcake nightie and still exude hatred and cruelty" Voldemort Sr., Tom "You are such an idiot, grow up, Me Sr." Riddle, and LVJ "Stop whining so we can go torture Muggles, but first you must change my nappie", the pre-resurrection grotesque baby form of the trio. And all three of them had just stepped out from the entrance to the kitchen carrying two tubs of chocolate ice cream and a popsicle for LVJ, who was teething.

"I ask myself, what is the racket going on out here? I wonder if they know exactly what time this is?" said Lord Voldemort Sr., his red eyes narrowed as he strode up to the two fanwriters, idly tapping a spoon to his lips. "I wonder if they think it's funny to be up at this hour when certain people have certain... business to attend to."

Phayn practically sighed with relief, causing Fender to glance at her in abject confusion. "So glad we ran into you, your, errr, terrornesses, sirs. See, we found two–"

"Why on this good earth is Severus sleeping on the floor?" gurgled LVJ, gnawing on his popsicle.

"That's what I mean," said Phayn. "We found him and–"

"The better question," interrupted Tom Riddle, "might be: why are there two of him?"

"I don't kn–" said Phayn.

"You don't think they've tried to copy him?" cooed LVJ, a faint hint of repulsion in his cultured voice. "To have their own private... lust-object... do you think?"

"That's a good thought, LVJ," said Lord Voldemort, Sr. "I ask myself, why didn't I think of duplicating Harry and the Weasley twins and using their copies as bribes for the ignorant fangirls? World domination through supply and demand of lust-objects... such a novel idea..."

"_I'm_ a lust-object," said Tom Riddle hotly.

Phayn once again tried to break in with the dire case of the duplicate Snapes, but found it hard to get a word in edgewise between the three Voldemorts. Fender wondered why she even bothered, and tried to look for ways of escape. Perhaps he could slip away while the dark lords' attention was diverted.

"Yes, but you're not a very good one, boy," said Lord Voldemort Sr. "You could learn much from the master," he said, polishing his fingernails on his nightie.

"Says the walking snake-man," muttered Riddle under his breath.

"But what about–"

"Nevertheless, what are two fanwriters doing in the middle of the night with _two_ incapacitated Snapes?" squealed LVJ, ever the head of reason in the Voldemort Co-op.

"Is that what's happening, then?" said a new voice. Another character emerged from behind the picture of the bowl of fruit. This was a tall handsome boy who looked rather like a cross between Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort Sr., which was precisely because he was the both of them: he was the Voldemort who had visited Miss Hepzibah Smith and stolen her heirlooms. He smiled cunningly and relieved Tom Riddle of his ice cream. Phayn's eyes widened, and Fender inched toward a tapestry to his left that he was quite sure concealed a secret passageway.

"Ah, there you are, Voldemort-in-the-Middle," said Lord Voldemort Sr., turning to the newcomer. "As you are new and just learning the art of being a Voldemort at HFA, you must watch as we deal with these culprits who have kidnapped a canon character and duplicated him to be their very own lust-object."

Voldemort-in-the-Middle smirked. "Shall I take notes _so I can usurp your position and rule the Voldemort Co-op forever?_"

"What was that?" said Lord Voldemort Sr.

"Nothing," said Voldemort-in-the-Middle, oozing charm better than any of the other Voldemorts ever could.

Fender was nearly to the tapestry. He felt the thick fabric brush against his hand. Very slowly he inched toward the edge, feeling for a good place to push it aside. Phayn continued to stare, in shock, at the newest Voldemort. _A new lust-object, Phayn? _he thought mockingly. _What about your dear little Remus? God, fangirls are fickle._

"Very well," said Lord Voldemort Sr., patting his pockets. "Watch as I teach them a lesson –_where's my wand! _All right, one of you, 'fess up, who's got the wand? I thought it was _my_ day to carry it!"

A small chuckle caused the four ages of Lord Voldemort to turn to where a young boy of about eleven was leaning against the wall, twirling a wand between his fingers. The boy seemed to be a bit of a walking magpie: he had Luna Lovegood's butterbeer-cap necklace draped around his neck, Dobby's tea cozy worn at a jaunty angle on his head (rather like a frilly pink yarmulke), Rita Skeeter's green pen stuck behind his ear, Neville's Remembrall bulging in his pocket, and a whole horde of Sues' dei ex machina rings and pendants hanging from his wrists and neck. He bore a striking resemblance to Tom Riddle.

"Give me that, young upstart!" snarled Lord Voldemort Sr., grabbing his wand from the boy. "You, too, have much to learn, Little Orphan Tommy."

"Don't call me that," said the boy sulkily, pickpocketing twelve sickles off of Voldemort-in-the-Middle as he sidled past him(self). The more charming Voldemort cuffed him upside the head.

Fender found the opening. He pulled the tapestry away from the wall surreptitiously, and sure enough felt a cool draft at his back. Phayn glanced at him, an expression of fury on her face at his impending desertion. Fender rolled his eyes (another 12 joules) and wondered what she had expected him to do, wait around and take the blame for something he had been opposed to from the start?

LVJ _tsk_ed and shook his head as Little Orphan Tommy kicked Voldemort-in-the-Middle in the shins and was treated to a hearty backhand. "I suppose it's better than having too little of one's own body and being forced to share with that turbaned weakling... still, there is such thing as too little of a good thing. Now, are we going to see some punishment or not?" he crowed.

Fender stepped back, and let the tapestry fall into place. Not even stopping to hear if his departure had been noticed, he turned and ran, hurtling through the stone corridor as if the devil himself were after him, which, all things considered, was very probable. He turned right at the nearest branching he could find, and didn't stop running until the tunnel rejoined the main walkways of Hogwarts. Fender glanced around, clutching a stitch in his chest as he looked for any sign that he was being followed. He recognized where he was; it was not far from the Slashering dormitory. Panting slightly, he reached the commons and barreled inside, not stopping to look behind him until he was in his own room and had snuck gratefully under the covers.

He tried to still his breathing, to make it seem as if he had not just run the length of the castle. And eventually his breathing did return to normal, and he did drift off to sleep. But when he did, dreams of Phayn's angry face filled his head, and rumblings of LINK disturbed his sleep.


	17. The Hunting of the Snape

There are some rules that are not meant to be broken. "Never tickle a sleeping dragon", comes to mind, especially considering that Madam Pomfrey had had to reattach Manda's arm after that one time with Norbert. In HFA, there are several unwritten rules that should be followed just as closely. For example, streaking through the Great Hall in Gryffindor-themed body paint and little else while shrieking "Ron! I heart you, Ron! Ronnieronnieronnieronnieronnie!" always resulted in the perpetrator sitting in Professor Trelawney's detention center while balancing an egg on her nose. If Miss Brin took kindly to said perpetrator, she would be allowed to retrieve her clothing beforehand. 

Some rules, however, do not have consequences. They have Effects, which warrant the capital letter just as much as Glomping or Wilver. When a major canon lust-object is insane, or worse, missing, the whole school panics. The lusters chomp and stamp and wail and whine and _oh, but if only he could see his one true love then surely he would be better, surely I must nurse him back to health... _The Order of the Sphinx had enough to do with preventing the whole of HFA of degenerating into a hurt/comfort fic without looking for the character himself. That task falls to the uncanon staff, and, in some situations, the lusters who have managed to fake unconcern at said lust-object's whereabouts.

"Extra, extra, read all about it! Professor Snape madder than Luna!" said Isaac Callow, proprietor of the HFA Daily Profit. After the printing press had manifested in Callow's dorm (a sort of half-spider/half-machine, with a tendency to gibber when in the presence of semicolons), he had seized upon the idea of the new school-wide newspaper. Anything to keep the Daily Profit from joining the ranks of the regular Mini-Aragogs. They did not need a Mini with the power to knock you out cold then run you through the press reels.

"I object to that," said Luna, looking up from her scrapbook of "Great Sockpuppet Conspiracies Through the Ages".

Nevertheless, Professor Snape was on the lips (and, it must be said, in the hearts) of HFA's fanwriters that morning at breakfast.

"I heard the Order of the Sphinx drugged him and locked him up," said Ghostling37.

"No, I heard they're keeping him on ice in case he wakes up in one of those fits of burning rage that are going around," said Elladora D. Jobberknoll.

"Ooo, I heard about that. My friend had one and we had to throw her bed in the lake!" said Tomato Greens.

"Poor Kris AngelsTouch," said Lunas. "After all that trouble with Trelawney pronouncing her Moaning Myrtle's evil twin, too."

Fender kept his eyes firmly on his bowl of Semi-Fortuitous Charms (HFA was strickly against giving its fanwriters anything that might bring them luck). He had a pretty good idea of what had happened to Snape, but confronting Phayn and making her lead him to her secret love-dungeon was not on the top of his list of things to do. Oh, right, Phayn. Sure, you've changed. Sure, you're a Remus fangirl. Sure, let's see what happens when we dump semi-conscious Snape at your feet. Let's see how deep your new lustings lie.

"Well, I heard that he's vanished," said Oracle.

"Ooo," chorused the Slasherings.

"But you can't apparate within Hogwarts grounds!" said Malathyne, resident Hermione wannabe.

But before Fender could move himself to voice his disdain, a silence spread over the Great Hall. An outsider might have attributed this to the majestic prescence of Horace Slughorn as he moved to the front of the staff table and cleared his throat, but an insider would say it was a silencing charm. Rather, they would scribble the word on their arm or write it in the remains of their eggs, because all of the fanwriters had simultaneously lost the ability to speak.

"Well, well, well," said Slughorn, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his robes. "Suppose you'll be wanting to know what this is all about. Well, those of you who haven't guessed will probably think we're crazy, but there you have it, must move on with the times and this new 'symbiotic relationship with fanwriters'...load of tosh you ask me, but there you have it...

"Ahem. The staff of HFA is offering a reward to anybody with information about the location of Professor Severus Snape."

If it had been possible for the fanwriters to whisper excitedly among themselves, they would have. As it was, they settled for wide-eyed expressions and giddy jitters of such force that they knocked over a pepper pot, two crocks of marmalade and Winky the house elf, who had never been very stable on her feet to begin with.

"You might have noticed that he's gone crazy and ceased to exist, but it wouldn't surprise me if you hadn't. All busy with your homework and your trying to get into young Mr. Malfoy's pants, right?" He laughed jovially. "Ah, yes, and we'll be considering issuing the lucky minx who finds him a fanwriter's probationary fanfiction permit," finished Slughorn. "Got to give you lot some incentive, now, don't we?"

Elladora D. Jobberknoll fell over, too, before Slughorn remembered to release the silencing spell on the fanwriters.

The first reaction was a stampede from the Wantingmor table, coupled with the manifestation of bags, lassos, tripwires and, in Aurora Berry's case, a giant butterfly net.

While the Slashering table got its bearings in the mad scramble taking place all around them, Fender got slowly to his feet and sidled out one of the lesser doors. A chance to write fanfiction? Well, as HFA was condoning the criminal act of restraining his blessed genius with the quill, he would have to show them some other way that he was not just another lazy fanwriter. The Wantingmors were already headed for the dungeons. Oh, really, thought Fender. You know canon so you think that's where he'll be? He smiled smugly and sauntered off toward the kitchens.

Fender was already spinning an outline for the first piece in his triumphant return to fanfiction as he reached the Ticklish Pear. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he stood on his tiptoes and scratched the canvas. The pear shook, and a banana nearby shrugged, as if to say, "look who's getting their jollies once again..."

But the painting swung open, and Fender stared.

Thoughts flashed across his brain:

1.) What are they–

2.) Is that _Snape–_

3.) Oh, good god, those are going to be–

4.) Sevvie's Angels are going to be in so much trouble–

5.) _I'm _in so much trouble–

6.) ...where did they get that much whipped cream?

But predominantly: Oh. Shit.

They had seen him. He bolted. In the back of his mind, he wondered if this would be enough to get his fanwriting permit, but the instinctual part –the part that had long ago warned his ancestors that playing with the huge furry kitty with the long sharp teeth would not be a good way to ensure their survival long enough to become ancestors– ran. It said, you know they never forget a face. You know they're going to kill you before you take away their lust-object. You know you're screwed. You know –wait, were those the same plates we _eat_ off of?

He turned a corner, thinking he might be sick, when an arm grabbed him.

At HFA, there are two common reactions to this occurance. Either you spin around and find Lucius Malfoy, all cold smiles and frosty hauteur, whispering, "I know what you wrote about me last summer". That, or it is in fact a random disembodied body part that happens to be lying around as a result of the kind of careless narrative that appears in the previous paragraph.

In this case, though, it was Phayn.

"A-ha! I found you!" she squeaked. "I should kill you for leaving me with You-Know-Them! You know they made me listen to Peter Pettigrew's therapy session? You know what that man's _issues_ are?"

For the first time, Fender regretted leaving her. But mostly, because she was the only thing stopping him from running outside and hiding in the forest from the tide of Sevvie's Angels who would assuredly be flooding around the corner at any minute, ready to garrote him with a Slytherin scarf and a roll of undeveloped film.

"Let me go, Phayn," shrieked Fender.

"Not until you apologize! I had to listen to him yammer about how demeaning the name 'Worm–'"

"Gnnarrgh–"

"Fender, you're going to hurt yourself if you try to jump out that window, but it won't be anything compared to what I'm going–"

He fell back to the ground, panting. What to do, what to do, what to do–

In the distance he heard, "He must've gone that way, girls! After him!"

Oh, right, push Phayn's buttons. "They've got Snape!" he said. "In the kitchens! They're after me!"

Phayn's ears perked up, and a semi-serious look crossed her face. "We've got to rescue him!"

Fender was just himself enough to utter, "Going back on Lupin so soon, are you?" before Phayn kicked him in the stomach and dragged him behind a nearby tapestry.

"Shut up, Bumper. They've got Snape? Which one?" hissed Phayn.

Fender didn't answer until the sound of Sevvie's Angels had receded on the other side of the tapestry. He whispered, "How the hell should I know?"

Phayn rolled her eyes. Fender pouted, because in many ways that was his trademark move.

"It's serious, isn't it," said Phayn. "Hmm. We ought to go save him."

Fender bit back an obvious, "No, it's Severus", as he was too much the solemn and haunted Deep Master of Fanfiction to employ such puns. However, there was plenty of fear still left for an, "Oh, no, not me, you are not going to drag me into a ring of slavering fangirls and expect me to run out with their lust-object! Do it yourself, if you're so keen."

"You owe me," said Phayn. "For last night."

"You didn't do anything for me last night!" said Fender.

"That's right! I could have told the Voldemorts that it was all your idea!" snarled Phayn.

Fender stopped short. "Why didn't you?"

Phayn looked away. "I...don't know."

He recovered his composure, trying not to show Phayn how much she had unsettled him. "Good thing for you, then, you know what they think about traitors. This whole canon's got a lot to say about traitors."

"I know," said Phayn, her eyes narrowing.

He sighed. "Well, we can't stay here much longer. Sevvie's Angels are sure to come back this way...soon." Another sigh. "If we hurry, we can probably get Snape out of there before they all get back."

It was, Fender decided as they crept back to the Ticklish Pear, the action of a whim. Nothing else. After all, Snape was one of his characters, one of the characters that spoke to his soul, _stuck it to the Man, yeah, right on, Snape!_ He shook his head. Anyway, he hated fangirls more than he hated the staff of HFA, and he may as well stick it to the fangirls while he was at it. There. Perfect sense.

"Right, so you run in and distract them and I'll get Snape," said Phayn, glancing at him as she raised her hand to the painting.

"Huh. I don't think so. _You_ rush in and distract them, and _I'll_ get Snape. I don't trust you to not go to bits when you see the get-up they've got him in."

Phayn glowered, but nodded, and soon the pear was squirming in its fruit cup. She took a deep breath, then reached for the edge of the picture. Then she paused and grabbed Fender's wrist. "If you run out on me again, you will regret it to the day you die then back around again until before you were born."

The painting swung open.

In the spirit of common decency, the author will not describe the scene that greeted Phayn's eyes. She will not remark upon the leather pants or the velvet couch. She will not explain what whipped cream and honey look like when they appear to have been shampooed into an unconscious man's scalp. She will say absolutely nothing about the nipple clamps.

Suffice to say that two very startled fangirls were suddenly looking out at them from a makeshift darkroom in a cloud of Fred and George's Peruvian Darkness powder, holding half-developed wizarding photographs and a collapsable tripod.

Phayn did, in many respects, the thing she did best, and tackled them to the floor. A group of House Elves whooped and whistled, and gave her a 9.7 for form (though Dobby later admitted to Ally that she would always be the best glomper in his book). Tables and basins of developing photographs scattered everywhere, coating the floor in ink and ruined paper.

Fender, feeling slightly ill, took off his cloak and threw it over the unconscious Potions Master. This was not so much a gesture of compassion as a desire not to touch the older man in a way that would inevitably supply the Slasherings with gossip for the next twelve years. However, it must be said that Fender was not a big guy, nor was he an especially strong one. He only managed to get Snape off of the velvet couch and five feet toward the door before collapsing under his weight.

"Get up, Fender, I can't hold them forever," shouted Phayn.

"He's not made of feathers, you know!" shouted Fender, trying to hitch Snape over his shoulder.

"No, I don't think so. Bones, I imagine, and assorted organs." Miss Brin was smiling like a cat as she stood in the portal next to Sirius Black and Professor McGonagall. "Oh, my. I am going to love hearing this one explained."


	18. The Reward that Wasn't

Fender had never been to Aerobics Lair before. Though this was true of the majority of the student population, it must be noted that Fender hadn't even _tried_ to get in, either. He realized that he could probably make a pocketful of cash –or of the assorted cosmetics, chocolate, and bootleg Evanescence CDs that the fanwriters relied on as currency– by keeping track of ways Miss Brin used to enter.

He was a little surprised that there wasn't more secrecy. The narrator will adopt a smidge of omnipotence and relate why this was the case.

First they came to the main portrait hole, which was more of a portrait wall in any case. When a place has been designed for easy entrance by everyone from Dobby to Fridwulfa, the architects had aimed big. Miss Brin said "Hallows" and the painting –one of Arabella Figg's creations of a faceless fanwriter pursued by a horde of Death Eaters and hinkypunks– swung open.

"Hallows", noted Fender. Must remember that.

In truth, "Hallows" was the "I have a fanwriter with me" password adopted by the canon and uncanon staff. If a fanwriter by themselves tried to gain entrance with it, the portrait instead opened to the Mini-Aragog MST amphitheatre, which, along with the Mini-Aragogs, had the added bonus of being half a mile into the Forbidden Forest and privy to some of the worst tripe ever to call itself fanfiction.

Yet when the portrait swung open this time, it was not to a dark forest full of disdainfully chittering spiders. There were three tunnels, with a desk set right in the middle of them. Someone had taken pains to write the word "Receptionist" into its oak paneling, and a small silver bell was perched on its right-hand corner.

Behind the desk sat Grawp, who had done rather well for himself at HFA. The giant, semi-literate though he was, managed a pile of paperwork the size of a small mountain (it looked even smaller next to Grawp, though) and wore a suit and a horrible gingham bowtie. He was ideal for a job that required him to say little, and, when vexed, smash someone over the head with his fist.

Miss Brin took the right fork of the tunnel. The wrong fork lead to Dolores Umbridge's Pit of Sadism, and the one with ambiguous moral character lead to Oedipus Inferno. Many a fangirl sneaking in the portrait hole behind Neville Longbottom, eluding Grawp, and about to taste victory had managed to take the incorrect path and ended up dangling from her fingernails from a ledge over a pit of lava, or worse, a pit of feral technicolor kittens with fangs the size of steak knives.

Then they were in Aerobics Lair. It was rather like an amphitheatre with collapsible staircases crawling up and down the walls like worms, coming to the call of any canon character that required passage to a different floor. Phayn glanced around noncommittally, then did a double-take and gaped at the place. Fender assumed his best "I am totally above this all" face. Miss Brin had a tight grip on both their shoulders, though, and steered them into a couple of chairs before they could run off. These were Ministry of Magic-grade chairs, though, and Fender found him buckled in place before he could blink.

Not that they would particularly want to run off. The ground floor of Aerobics Lair was a sort of meeting ground for the assembled canon characters. On the far side of the open commons, a hanging sign proclaimed that "the Whinging Scab" was open for business and would no longer be accepting Famous Fangirl Cards as currency. Draco Malfoy was lounging outside with a pint of something suspicious and bubbly, while Remus Lupin perused the faculty edition of the Daily Profit over a plate of shepherd's pie. Lupin looked up when he spotted Miss Brin, then raised an eyebrow at Phayn. Phayn grinned, and, Fender was surprised to see, wink.

What was even more surprising was that Lupin winked back.

But Fender could not bother to contemplate just what Phayn had done to Lupin, because just then Professor McGonagall came in dragging Professor Snape. Well, not quite dragging in the sense that Fender had tried to drag Snape. The Potions professor had been cleaned up and properly robed, and seemed to be trying to escape McGonagall in favor of killing fangirls.

"This is inappropriate conduct, taking advantage of my uncertain state and moral ambiguity! I will not tolerate this! They must be disciplined!" rasped Snape.

"And surely they will be, Severus. But not while you still smell of honey," said McGonagall.

"As if things were not already confusing enough," said Miss Brin, keeping a firm grip on Fender and Phayn. "I am assured by the PPC that our timeline will straighten out in the next couple days...or months."

"It better," said Draco. "The fanwriters age triple in a year, we only manage to change a year's worth every four, and even when that happens we go from being fifteen to sixteen in the space of a day. I'll be glad when it's over."

"You're not the only one," spat Snape.

Miss Brin seemed to be hearing this conversation for the hundredth time. She released her grip on Fender and Phayn, letting the buckles do the brunt of the work. Fender shrugged her off anxiously. He did _not like to be touched_. Especially not by the very offensive person who was enslaving him at HFA, trampling on his genius, breaking his _soul_–

"Oh, quit monologuing," said Miss Brin. "This place is enough of a mess without you rehashing the same gripes day-in, day-out."

Phayn glanced at Fender and stuck out her tongue.

Just then, Sirius Black arrived. He looked inordinately pleased with himself. Fender thought that he might have just come from brutalizing the fangirls who had kept Snape hostage. In fact, he had just given them some tips. Such as Snape's teaching schedule. And the location of a secluded corridor that would be perfect for tormenting– no, Sirius meant, admiring Snape. Canon character camaraderie can only go so far.

"Sent the whole pack of them to Lily," said Sirius. "Snape always attracts the sick ones, doesn't he?"

"That is patently unfair," said Snape. He burst into tears. "Just because I can't decide if I'm a sufferingly noble antihero or a devious villain, you're all taking advantage of me! I'm not the first one who has had mor-mor-morality issues!"

"There, there," said McGonagall.

"Are you sure this is the real Snape?" said Miss Brin. "He's awfully weepy."

"Now I don't have a right to my feelings?" bawled Snape. "I'm so mis-mis-misunderstood!"

"He's talking like a bad angst fic," said Miss Brin. "Are you sure he's _our_ Snape? Not one from the fanficto-realities?"

"He's the only one we've found," said McGonagall. "I'm told that map of ours doesn't lie." She shot a glance at Lupin.

Miss Brin sighed and rubbed her eyes. "I just hope that it's only the Deathly Hallows stress. I don't want to think that we have another OOC flu going around. Not at a time like this. Why don't you take Severus to his chambers, professor?" said Miss Brin. "He can sleep it off; I expect we can deal with these two well enough without him."

Fender glared back haughtily. This was not his fault. He had never wanted to get messed up in this. They had promised him a permit, not to be dragged around like a common miscreant fanwriter. Where _was _his reward? He had found Snape. He wanted his fanfiction permit. That had been the reward, hadn't it?

"I want a writing permit," said Fender stubbornly.

"Really," said Miss Brin.

"You said anyone who brought back Snape would get a fanfiction permit," said Fender. "He's back, isn't he?"

"And you're going to take the credit for that, Mr. I'm Too Good To Get Involved With Anything?" said Phayn. "If anything, _I_ should get the permit. I'm the one who decided that we should save Snape!"

"You just want to jump his bones," said Fender. He turned to Miss Brin angrily. "Do you really want a bunch of Snape/Mary Sue fics running around because of her?"

"I'm in love with Remus now!" said Phayn hotly.

"Oh, great," said Lupin, flipping to the Quidditch section of the Daily Profit ("Five fanwriters hit by bludgers! Oliver Wood says, 'I am astounded anyone would leave a crate of bludgers open in the Lusterbuff dormitory, right where anyone could open it. Anyone at all. Especially my fangirls.'").

"There you are, Meir," said a girl in a silver-trimmed uniform. Fender recognized her as Pineapple Queen from the Order of the Sphinx. She had once kicked him in the shins. Then hexed him to have five legs, so she could kick all of them in the shins. It had been a royal pain getting Nurse Pomfrey to amputate the extra ones. Fender scowled at her. Pineapple Queen grinned. "The PPC just finished fortifying Aerobics Lair with protective buffers. We're all set for Deathly Hallows."

"Deathly Hallows? Isn't that a few months away?" asked Miss Brin.

"Nah, 's tomorrow," said Pineapple Queen. "Timeline changed ten minutes ago."

"Damn," said Miss Brin. "Did we ever figure out who was screwing with that thing?"

"It's not me," said Phayn.

"What are these fanwriters doing here?" asked Neshomeh, coming up behind Pineapple Queen.

"They kidnapped Snape," said Remus.

"Did not!" said Phayn.

"What a shame," said Sirius, wandering over to Lupin. He took the empty chair beside the werewolf and looked pointedly at Lupin's half-eaten pie. Lupin sighed and pushed the plate towards Sirius, who tucked in heartily. Then he passed Sirius the comics section.

"Shouldn't have fanwriters in here," said Neshomeh. "We're sealing everybody in for the shift in just a few minu–"

It went dark. When the torches flickered back, the common area was crowded with canon characters. "Crowded" is perhaps too soft a word. "Sardined" would be more appropriate. Hagrid was wedged up against the wall between Gilderoy Lockhart and Hannah Abbott. Dobby had managed to get himself on Vernon Dursley's shoulders, and was clinging to the man's mustache. Cho Chang had landed beside the basilisk, and was, with her eyes pressed shut, trying to locate the giant reptile's sunglasses on the floor. Four of the Voldemort co-op had appeared on the canopy above the Whinging Scab, while LVJ tottered too near a staircase and almost took a nasty fall before being scooped up by Ginny Weasley. It was loud, and angry, and Fender had an unpleasant view of Firenze before Phayn pulled him out of the way.

"What hap–"

"How did they all get–"

Another member of the Order of the Sphinx ran in. It was Em. More appropriately, she ran into Cornelius Fudge. "I had to portkey them all here!" wailed Em. "There was no time, what with the timelines going nuts! We're all locked in!"

Miss Brin disentangled herself from Mosag's funeral weeds and captured Phayn before she could sneak off. In the melee, she seemed to have been able to slip through her bindings. Fender wriggled against his own straps before Mad-Eye Moody got him by the ear.

"Y'hear that, fanwriter?" said Moody. "They've sealed us in for the canon change. _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows._ Don't you even think about causing mischief."


	19. The Last Canon Shift

Author's Note: ...shuffles in... looks around... shuffles out. Umm. Enjoy?

*********

The Last Canon Shift

Fender clutched at his seat as the ground whorled around him. Time seemed to slow down, yet the canon characters all around him moved incredibly fast, their bodies becoming blurs as they zoomed to each other, bouncing from floor to ceiling. He followed Ginny's trajectory, notable due to her bright red hair, as she sped from her mother, her father, to Harry's blur, which stood stationary at the center. Then she ricocheted away and he lost her within a mill of students.

Fender liked to imagine that he had seen a great deal of the world in his short lifespan. He had seen the gritty underbelly of the world and crawled along its gut, seen the scruffy five o'clock shadow of a burnt out populace and scraped its edge, been at the heart of the decaying planet and watched it die. He had once seen a snake get run over by a truck. But at that moment, in Aerobics Lair, Fender saw the Story. In its purest form, he saw characters weaving together, back and forth, looping and colliding with each other with the grace of swans and the power of charging rhinoceroses. He watched characters burst apart and reform, then saw new ones coalesce out of the ether. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, lovely in its intricacy, brazen in its delicacy.

Then it was over. The characters slowed in their paths and eased to a halt, falling limply to the ground. For a moment, he thought, _Oh, shit, she really did kill them all off! _Then there was a groan, and Professor McGonagall pushed herself to her feet. She rubbed her back gingerly, patted herself down, then looked around at the canon characters strewn around in mass nap-time.

If Fender had looked, he would have seen the characters picking themselves up and shuffling away to their rooms. However, he was presently occupied with vomiting over the arm of his chair. A terrible feeling, especially with his arms still manacled in place.

A nagging thought poked at his mind. He glanced to his right. Phayn was gone. Not that he was concerned about that. Not at all.

The Order of the Sphinx was back. Several looked as if they had seen action, mostly along the lines of scorch marks and odd crops of warts. Miss Brin tottered after them, looking aged and losing her footing as if she had been asleep for a long time. Fender called out, "Oi! You! Over here!" but was drowned out by the sudden wails of canon characters.

One of the Weasley twins was crouched over the other; Fender could not tell them apart. Sirius Black and James Potter were holding Lupin sadly, while Lily hurried to the Aerobics Lair Apothecary. She elbowed a crowd of Death Eaters out of the way, all of whom were carrying some form of Lord Voldemort.

"Resuscitations please go to the Whinging Scab, everyone else out; we need another check of the grounds to make sure we haven't missed any plot holes. If you see a suspicious person, stun first; we'll sort them all out later," McGonagall was saying. "Everyone please look after your canon-shift partner and report to the Madam Pomfrey for emergencies."

There was a sudden jerk on Fender's manacles, and he looked up to see Pineapple Queen unfastening him from his chair. "Okay, back to your dormitory. You didn't splinch yourself with one of the canons, so consider yourself lucky."

Fender tottered to his feet. "What about my license? I still haven't gotten that, and I found Snape for you!"

Dethryl prodded Fender in the back. "There are two hundred copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in each Common Room. Do you want to read them now, or do you want to stay here and worry about your license?"

Fender's mouth twitched. But between fighting the herd for a book and being a distinguished individual with the only fanfiction license in the school, he would have to go for being distinguished. He dug his heels into the ground. "I want my license."

Dethryl sighed. "I'm going to murder Slughorn for making promises. Fine. You want your license? You'll get it once this is sorted out. Go help Madam Pomfrey with the resuscitations and we'll get you a license soon enough."

Fender was about to protest when he saw Miss Brin making a beeline for him and the two Order members. "Fine. But you've promised me."

Dethryl let out a bark of laughter and shoed Fender away.

Helping with the resuscitations was worse than Fender would have thought. For one thing, it took him an hour and three bruised ribs to get to Madam Pomfrey and explain what he was going to do (being backhanded by Hagrid leaves a mark). Then, there was the matter of the resuscitations themselves. There was watching a dead person come back to life, which was fine when it was Lupin, only dead for a few days. Less fine when it was Scrimgeour, dead for a year.

"Farewell, LBJ, we hardly knew ye," muttered Ginny Weasley, who had decided to help out as well. She was in charge of the Essence of Deus Ex, the only known element able to revive a dead character. At present, Fender was helping her out with the Voldemort co-op.

Fender was fortunate that he had already lost his breakfast after the canon shift; otherwise he surely would have seeing the Lords Voldemort collectively, who, upon being unified as characters, were now in the process of grafting themselves into a singular body.

Ginny assigned Fender the unfulfilling task of watching the Voldemorts while they re-spawned and went off in search of Harry. Fender grimaced, pulling the Voldemorts apart if they looked to be formulating into something unnatural (Fender had asked Ginny what she meant by "unnatural", and was rewarded with a series of flashcards smacking him on the head with pictures of "Good = person", "Bad = mutated man-thing with too many limbs"). He grumbled as he pried an errant forearm away from the shin of Little Orphan Tommy, then let it sink into Lord Voldemort Sr.'s forearm.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "I wonder if he'll imprint on me when he wakes up." The bizarre thought of Lord Voldemort thinking Fender to be his mother was just disturbing enough to outweigh its benefits and prevent Fender from trying it, though.

Just as he was working on downsizing some skulls, though, a peculiar thread of conversation drifted past.

"We've found three Snapes in total, Miss Brin," Neville was saying. "Two dead, and half-melded together, that's a good thing. But the one of them looked... it was a fanficto-reality Snape. And it was carrying this."

"It looks like a radio."

"It's like no wireless I've ever seen. And it's been beeping ever since I got it off of him."

"...Off of him?"

A quick glance over his shoulder saw Neville producing some rather disturbing motions with the sword of Godric Gryffindor. Fender shuddered and turned back to setting the Voldemorts' thumbs correctly.

"Give me that," said Miss Brin quickly. There was a smash, and Fender risked another peek to see her grinding the wireless into the ground with her boot.

"You know liking Celestina Warbeck's not a crime, don't you?"

"You really got some character development, didn't you, Neville?"

"It's a bit of a rush, to be frank."

"I destroyed it because it was transmitting. We'll figure out where it comes from later."

"You want to get some reading done?"

"Yes, before my brain draws any more conclusions from the list of resuscitations."

At that moment, Lord Voldemort kicked Fender in the gut. He had a sudden perception of curtains and glass as he went sailing through the window. Apparently the Voldemort co-op was still operating under the strength of seven men.

"Got to hand it to him. The boy really wants his license," said Dethryl.

"Oh, is that why he's still here," said Miss Brin. "Aaaand... why he's now in the lake."

"We should give the girl a license, too, I suppose."

"The girl?"

"The other girl who brought in Snape."

"Are you joking? That was Phayn Knarm-Doots."

On their cot, the two halves of Snape that were melding together, the good!Snape and evil!Snape, gave a synchronous shudder.

"My point exactly."

In the lake, Fender floundered. The school robes the fanwriters wore took on water annoyingly fast, and he found himself shivering, cursing, and dog-paddling his way to shore a lot slower than he would have liked. At last he was out of the lake, wringing out his clothes and thanking whatever power there was in HFA that had made summer the time for his impromptu swim instead of winter.

"What is it, Fang? You've found something?"

Fender looked up to see Hannah Abbott, wand out, rushing toward him. "Oh, great."

"Identify yourself!" she cried, reigning in Hagrid's boarhound.

Fender raised his hands above his head, wincing as his wet clothing stuck to him. "I'm a student."

"At Hogwarts?" said Hannah.

Fender rolled his eyes. "At HFA."

"You look like a Gary-Stu to me. Very broody."

"I'm not--"

"Can't be taking chances! Stupefy!"

As Fender hit the ground, the last thought in his mind was this: I need to get a new fandom.


	20. The Science of Awkwardness

Fender had a scream half-way out of his mouth before it hit him. He was in HFA. The crazed, freckly girl with pink hair poking him was just Phayn. "WHA-- at do you want," he said, relaxing slightly.

Phayn looked older. Her face was drawn and there were circles under her eyes. "We have to go back to the dormitory," she said.

It was then that he realised what was wrong. He was upside-down. "What happened?" said Fender, trying to free his hands from his sides.

"You got tossed in with the Gary-Stus," said Phayn. "I think you owe me again, I had to give Mudblooed all of my Famous Fangirl Cards to get in here to find you."

Fender was speechless. He knew how much the Tara Gilesbie card went for on the underground student market.

"I'm going to cut you down, so hold still," said Phayn. She produced a wand from her school robes. Fender closed his eyes. _Please, let this be quick and painless..._

But then he was on the ground, Phayn was pulling the Mini-Aragog web off of him, and Fender knew, at that moment, that Something Had to be Done.

"You know I don't like you very much?" he said in a rush. Then a blush.

Phayn shrugged. "I don't like you very much, either."

Deep in the Oedipus Inferno, the Order of the Sphinx had crafted a device to measure the strength of an awkward silence. This one registered as sixteen milli-Murdocks.

"Well... I'm glad we've cleared that up," said Fender, brushing himself off. He risked a glance at Phayn.

She blinked, sighed, then smiled. "But guess wha-at?" she said in her usual sing-song voice.

"What," said Fender, crossing his arms over his chest.

"We have fanfiction licenses!"

Fender practically cut the card from Phayn's hand. Sure enough, it was a little square of parchment initialled by both Ally White and Pansy Parkinson (Head of HFA's Illegal Fanfiction Watch). At last! His glory was here, or shortly to be here. He would write a piece so magnificent that the bumbling fools that ran HFA would have no choice but to admit to his prowess and elevate him to the victorious pedestal that he most certainly deserved. But he-- No, he would shun such publicity. He was a master of the shadows, the angst and heartbreak that coated the world in despair, he would ignore the call of the bright and fawning public and immerse himself in his--

Fender's happy truck skidded to a halt.

"What do you mean, _we_ have fanfiction licenses?"

Phayn grinned manically. "Just what I said! I'm going to write a story about Remus! Isn't that going to be perfect? It'll be all about me and him living forevers with our ten thousand kids on a happy farm! He won't hurt me 'cause I'm part wolf, so we'll be together forevers!"

Fender sighed. Of course that's how it would be. He pulled himself together and started to pick his way toward what appeared to be the exit. He presumed they were in the Mini-Aragogs' MST Theatre, which meant the Forbidden Forest, which meant that he was probably going to be conked on the head, beaten, and eaten within the next ten minutes. He quicked his pace, hearing Phayn trip after him.

"Fender, you know what your problem is?" said Phayn, skipping clumsily next to Our Protagonist. "You're too gloomy. You need to enjoy stuff more! Like, you have to have a fantasy, don't you? Something you really want to enjoy?"

A few things flitted through Fender's mind. Fleur Delacour. 2,000 reviews. Not getting eaten. Phayn. A really nice journ-

No.

No no no no.

NO.

He stopped dead, then pivoted to look at the girl. She smiled at him, then poked him in the ribs. "Come on, you silly softy. You can tell me."

Fender swallowed. "No."

"Oooh, I'm going to guess it! I bet it's Snape!"

That caused his jaw to drop. In Oedipus Inferno, the Flabbergastometer _ping_ed in at a steady 342 deci-Woosters.

"You... think I want Snape?"

Phayn giggled. "I think you want to _be_ Snape, all secretly tormented and then redeemed by True Love!"

That snapped him. "Wait, _redeemed_? _Snape_? What are you-"

Phayn had clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry I forgot you haven't done _Deathly Hallows_ yet!"

"And you have? How long have I been out?"

"You mean how long have I been stalling us for time?" said Phayn, pressing her back against the 4th Wall.

But before she could lean in further, the Timely Interruption arrived. It was a small train, about the size for a child to ride, scarlet and smoking. The conductor, a goblin wearing a hat that read "Buzzkill", saluted Fender and Phayn. "I'm set to go interrupt a private moment between Harry and Ginny, you kids want a lift up to the castle?" said the goblin.

Fender nodded. As soon as they climbed onto the Interruption, Fender let himself relax. The forest melted into a blur of green with hairy black legs, and Phayn was too busy chatting to the conductor to observe him closely. _Dear Ironic Over-power, _ thought Fender. _Please please please please PLEASE. She's not even that pretty..._

The Ironic Over-power mumbled to himself, then promptly halted the Timely Interruption with force enough to crash Phayn back into Fender's chest. Fender would have blushed, had the same force not also knocked him backward, off of the train, and into a startled Gilderoy Lockhart.

"I say, is this the Timely Interruption?" said Lockhart. "I can't imagine that Ludo and I would need one right now!"

"Right as always, Gilderoy," said Ludo Bagman. He leaned forward in his green lawn chair. "Go see Hagrid, please. There's been an awful lot of commotion in that hut of his."

"Cor! I'm not going there again!," said the Buzzkill Goblin. "Last time he backhanded the whole operation through the dish cabinet! Who knows what'll happen nows he has Norberta!"

"Oh, dear Norberta is perfectly charming! Why, it reminds me of the time I subdued three dragons all by myself while I was vacationing in Cornwall! Did I ever tell you about that, Ludo? It was in _Defenestrations with Dragons_..."

Fender inched away from Lockhart and Bagman. And the Buzzkill Goblin. He did _not_ want to know about Hagrid's love life. Or meet Hagrid's dragon. Who was suddenly female? Had he missed that in _Half-Blood Prince_?

No, what he wanted was a nice sleep. Hanging upside-down didn't count. He wanted a cup of black coffee, and a computer to write his masterpiece on. It would be about Sn-- (Phayn's grinning face danced through his head). No, it wouldn't be about Snape. It would be about _Voldemort_, a really dark fic about the darkness of the Dark Lord. Yeah, that would be good.

No. Hold the bus-- He wanted to read _Deathly Hallows_!

Grumbling to himself, he shambled (but not too quickly-- eagerness was a sign of hope, something he had already lost in this jaded world --huh, good stuff. He'd have to remember that for his fic) up to the castle, where he turned to go down to the dungeons when something caught his eye.

A different interruption.

They were having a party.

HFA was having a party.

HFA was having a party without Fender.

No, HFA was having a party without Fender and without Fender knowing about it so he could shun it for its juvenileness!

A trickle of horror sank into his gut. They were oblivious to him.

There was a banner over the Entrance Hall -- "Happy Canon Settlement!" it read. The canon characters were about, though significantly less of them than he had expected. Fewer duplicates, he supposed, given that the seventeen Voldemorts were now one Voldemort. There was one Harry, one Ron, one Hermione, though Fender spotted a bunch that looked similarly like them, yet older, hanging out at a table marked "Epiloguizens".

Noticeable, too, were the fanwriters. They were dressed smartly, all on their best behavior under the watchful eyes of Argus Filch and Molly Weasley. Girls that he swore he had seen yesterday beating each other up for a lock of Draco's hair were chatting quite amicably with Blaise Zabini (now entirely male, it seemed). _It figures,_ he thought. _I am gone for how long and this place turns into a lovey nightmare? And I'm not a part of this... I'll never be a part of this... I don't know if I can..._

"Riddikulus!" said a sharp voice, then there was a crack and the boggart slunk away, revealing an empty hall. Fender turned to see seventeen year-old Ron Weasley giving him an amused look.

"Thanks, mate. I just won a galleon off of Dean. He thought for sure your boggart would be girls."

"I am not afraid of girls!" shouted Fender, flushing with relief and indignation. But Ron was long gone. "At least not most of them," he mumbled.

"Who's afraid of girls?" said two voices at the same time. This time, the Awkward Windsock blew to full-mast. Fender turned slowly. Phayn. And Peeves.

"Fender, Fender afraid of girls! Sees a lady then he hurls!" cackled Peeves, swooping off to spread the news to the castle at large.

Leaving Fender alone. With Phayn.

"Look on the bright side," said Phayn, clapping him on the back. "I doubt it'll come as much of a surprise."


	21. A Liberal Arts Major in Snape's Clothing

Wrenchman frowned and scratched his knee. Then he remembered that it wasn't really his knee and that it was Snape's knee. Weird. He paused, and leaned against the wall.

He was lucky that so few of the fanwriters bothered to come up to the fourth floor annex. Despite being a popular hangout for the minor canon characters (see: Hufflepuff House), the area gave him enough privacy to let his guard down once in a while. Glancing around to make sure no one was coming, Wrenchman scratched his head furiously. Snape's hair was itchy.

Sometimes he wished that they had never found the wart of Mary Sue, stolen the book, or managed to brew the potion that left him stuck in a very uncomfortable character body. But that had been Ruthander's plan. The thing about possession!Sues, Ruthander had told him, was that they could go without notice if you made an effort. So, here he stood, one poor liberal arts major stuck in a fanficto-reality Snape, wandering the halls of Hogwarts. HFA, rather. The difference was striking.

The wooden box on his belt was buzzing. Wrenchman sighed and ducked into an alcove.

"Have you found it yet?" said Ruthander's voice from inside the box.

"No," said Wrenchman. His voice came out as Snape's, something that still creeped him out.

"Did you ask?"

Wrenchman wanted to explain that it wasn't as easy as that. He couldn't ask a canon character; the ones who knew about it traveled in packs on account of the safety-in-numbers principle (more characters together meant more fun for all when a rogue luster tried to glomp one of the group). He couldn't ask a fanwriter; they didn't even know about it, and he was uncertain what would happen if he got attacked and Mini-Aragogs showed up to rescue him. That, and the fanwriters scared him. Quite a bit.

"Wrenchman, you need to find it before it's moved. How many times have I told you this?"

"Every time," said Wrenchman. He paused. "Sometimes I worry about all this exposition."

"That's not what I'm paying you for, Wrenchman," said Ruthander.

Footsteps, pattering quickly through the halls. Someone was coming.

"I'm on," said Wrenchman. "Out."

"Oh, good, Professor! There you are!"

Wrenchman spun around to see Hermione Granger standing at the mouth of the corridor. "We've been holding off the 'Sunken Ships' lecture. Please hurry, I don't know how much longer Professor Dumbledore can hold off the fanwriters with his magic tricks."

"Err... right," said Wrenchman. A stone weight dropped into his stomach. This was just the sort of exposure that he _didn't_ want.

"Now that everything's settled down from the canonshift," Hermione was saying, "we figured we'd set down the law on who is a canon couple and who isn't."

_Snape, think Snape, you are Snape._ "Like that will prevent them from writing pairings where I wind up with anything that moves," he said coldly.

"Well, Miss Brin says it will be educational for them to be reminded of our natural order, and to see canon triumphing properly," said Hermione. She smiled in a very grim way. "And if making out with Ron on stage will prevent me from winding up with you in even _one_ fanfiction, I'm game."

"Please, some of us have eaten today," said Wrenchman.

He wondered if he could just run. Surely she wouldn't chase him? But Hermione had a Mini-Aragog whistle, she wouldn't have to. The spiders would get him for sure. And that would be suspicious, too, if Snape ran away from a chance to torture --ah, educate. Of course. Educate fanwriters.

_Good on me, that was a very "Snape" thing to think, _thought Wrenchman. Then, _I am going to need serious therapy when this is over._

But Snape might run away if the fanwriters said something that hurt his oh-so-fragile psyche. He would just have to overreact disproportionately to something the fanwriters said very early on in the lecture. He could do that.

Hermione lead Wrenchman-as-Snape to the Transfiguration classroom. It had been magically expanded, as most of the classrooms had been, to accommodate the sheer volume of students of HFA. Wrenchman eyed the students warily as he followed Hermione to the front of the room, where Albus Dumbledore was pulling a rabbit out of his hat.

"But Professor, we just saw you put the rabbit _in_ the hat," Artemisia Duncan pleaded. "We _know_ it's there!"

"It's clearly slight-of-hand," said Somali Lynx, HFA's only Kneazle student. "Not even _real_ magic."

As Wrenchman passed Dumbledore, he chanced a glance at the hat the wizard was holding. Dumbledore moved to stick the rabbit back into the hat, and just as it was out of the students' line of sight, the rabbit vanished. Dumbledore caught Wrenchman's eye and winked. "I just found the whole slight-of-hand thing too difficult, Severus."

"Now that we're all here," said Hermione, taking her place at the podium, "we can begin today's lecture. As you know, the release of _Deathly Hallows_ has now formally solidified our canon."

"Which means we can take you to task for violating who we end up with. Isn't that right, Astoria?"

"Right, Draco."

Wrenchman had to squint. There appeared to be someone there, and he supposed that she was Astoria Malfoy nee Greengrass, but she looked very... insubstantial.

"That's right, fanwriters," said Draco smugly. "I get married. I am not shagging Potter or Weasley or Granger--"

"Much to our relief," said Hermione.

"So stop pairing me with them!" said Draco.

"But, but she's so... two-dimensional?" said Jareth_Tights.

"Hey, minor characters have feelings, too!" said Astoria. "Why don't you write a story about me, flesh me out a bit? Huh?"

Draco put his hand on her arm. "Trust me, dear, you'd rather they didn't. It's a slippery slope to canon-suedom."

"Moving on to some other ships, you will note that Ron and I are happily married at the finish of the series?" said Hermione.

Elisa Tyfied raised her hand. "So why aren't you older?"

"I beg your pardon?" said Hermione.

"Why don't you look older and married?" said Elisa Tyfied.

"You still look like teenage-Hermione. Why didn't the canonshift age you up?"

"Well, that's a very interesting question," said Professor Vector, appearing at the door carrying a corkboard covered in graphs and tables. "What I have deduced is a concentration of characterization combined with the age range set by canon. If you look at the density of character development for your 'Epiloguizens', as I call them, you will see a break between where their arc of potentiality reaches its apex..."

Victor and Trelany, the Mini-Aragogs that trailed Vector, caught the look from Hermione and shepherded Professor Vector back out the door. There was a nod from Hermione that promised extra kibble that night.

"The short answer, fanwriters, is 'because'," said Hermione.

Ron walked up behind her and put an arm around her shoulder. "You heard the lady."

There was a chant beginning somewhere near the back of the room. It sounded to Wrenchman suspiciously like "Demonstrate! Demonstrate!" He clapped a hand to his forehead.

Hermione shuffled her notes on the podium as the chant grew louder, then blushed and kissed Ron. Ron staggered a bit, before Hermione broke it off, her face as red as her Gryffindor tie.

"Happy? I hope so," said Hermione gruffly. "You are very, very lucky I am willing to indulge in your--"

Ron looked at Harry, shrugged, then pulled Hermione away from the podium and out the back door. Wrenchman tried to ignore the odd thumps that followed.

"So, I think that puts me in charge now," said Harry. "This is an easy one, guys. Me and Ginny. That's all."

Kurome Shiretsu jumped to her feet. "Excuse me, but, for posterity, you see, uh, what exactly did Ginny get you for your seventeenth birthday?"

Harry blushed. "Th-that's none of your business."

Ginny smiled like a cat.

"S-Snape, don't you want to say something now?" said Harry, edging away from the crowd.

Wrenchman jumped when he realized that it was him. "Uh, yes," he said. _Snape, think Snape. But what would Snape say in this lecture... uh, right._

"I don't end up with Sirius! Disgusting fanwriters. He is dead, and I was never involved with James, nor Remus. And I don't end up with Hermione or Harry, or Draco, as you can see," he said. _Just give me an excuse to overreact and run out of this room,_ he thought. The fanwriters' attention was on him, and he could feel himself starting to panic.

"What about Lily?" said Subieko.

"What _about_ Lily?" said Snape.

Some moments roar up before you like a tidal wave. Some pass without notice. This moment just appeared. Wrenchman-as-Snape looked at the door, where HFA's canon character-100%-Bonafide-Angus Snape stood. Wrenchman's jaw dropped. Harry Potter surged to his feet, and produced a Mini-Aragog whistle. He blew a blast (Sirius Black fell to his knees, cursing) and the classroom was swarming with Mini-Aragogs. "Impostor Snape!" shouted Ginny.

And Wrenchman could only watch as the Snape in the doorway was brought down by a pile of furry black spiders.

*********

Author's Note: I'm hoping to keep this going on a semi-regular basis, and I'm sorry if the story's a bit rusty getting back into itself. I really appreciate any comments or criticism at this point, as well as any requests for characters or items to appear. The Harry Potter Canon is filled with so many characters that I don't often realize if I've neglected any one significantly.

I'm also keeping a livejournal nowadays, and I will try to keep all apprised of the status of this fic there from now on. (See link on my author page ^).

-MB


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